This one examines the state-of-the-art combat armour before it. It takes a long time to examine and understand everything it sees. It has seen other dolls wearing this style of armour on the battlefield before, but it has never seen this model. It has been told that this model is extremely new, and most armour like this is reserved only for the ace of a squad. A Glaive-class like this one is lucky to even see armour like this up close. No Glaive-class combat doll will ever have worn anything this advanced. No handler worth their budget would ever waste protection like this on something as disposable as a Glaive-class. It looks over at the glass window separating this room from the observation room. An officer stands at the window, watching this one. Its old handler, from several squads and many deployments ago. He gestures towards the armour. This one looks back at the armour. It looks at how many useful features and accommodations it has. It thinks about how useful this armour would have been on its previous deployments. How this armour would have protected it from injury. How this armour would have protected the other combat dolls it knew from being killed in the battles its old handler sent them out on.
This one examines the leg units, observing the gyros and jets built into it to allow extreme rapid movement while maintaining balance. The thrusters even allow for extremely limited flight, or hovering over extended distances. They are powerful enough to function with any combat doll, even weighed down by armaments and supplies. This one looks at the window. The officer speaks and his voice echoes through the speakers in the room. He explains the design process behind the leg units and how they were designed to assist in battlefield mobility. In particular it was designed to allow traversal of minefields. He asks if this one remembers when it was sent across a minefield to retrieve intel. This one looks away from the window and at its own right arm. The outer shell is still discoloured from the heat of the explosion that destroyed the Shield-class who fell on a landmine after her leg was hit by a stray bullet. This one does not look back at its old handler. Instead it looks back to the leg unit. It notices that the gyros in the leg units are calibrated to allow any user to maintain a relative standing position while in flight.
This one knows it should not have come to visit its old handler. There is nothing he could offer it that would make up for how mismanaged his command. This one often thinks of how many other dolls did not survive battles they were sent into by him. It often thinks of how many other dolls did survive, but with such injuries and trauma that they were never able to fight again, and ended up repurposed or decommissioned. It wants to ask him if he remembers how many combat dolls he sent to their injury or destruction. It wants to ask him if he remembers which of this oneās old wounds and injuries and scars it gained on missions he sent it on. This one does not know which would be worse ā if he remembered, or if he did not.
This one examines the arm units next. Besides the same features as the leg units designed to assist in mobility, this one notices the inbuilt weapon systems. Miniature autocannons adorn both forearms, with folding bayonets attached for close-quarters combat. Standard armament for battle armour, although the autocannons on this are higher calibre than it has seen before. The armour has been adjusted for better recoil control. This one takes a longer look at well as the inbuilt armour. Each arm features a folding shield system that can unfold at a momentās notice to protect much of the body. This one thinks of how many hails of gunfire these shields would have protected it from. It observes the detachable finger units controlled by electromagnetic fields, designed for precise use at long distances. Its old handler sees it examining them, and mentions how they are designed to allow combat dolls to defuse bombs from a safe distance, to prevent injury or destruction in case of explosion. This one says it would have helped the Shortsword-class that it remembers. Its old handler nods and says yes, it would have. Even though it survived, the connections in its shoulders were destroyed and its arms could never be replaced. It notices the flare launchers in the shoulders and thinks of all of the missiles that have struck it and its squads in the battlefield that would have been stopped by such measures. It looks at its old handler. He smiles at this one. He appears proud that this one is identifying all of the weapons. This one is confused by how that still makes it feel like it has done well.
This one has been on leave for some time, recovering from various injuries. It knows the time it has will not be enough to recover sufficiently, and that it will be on the battlefield again before it is ready. It is unsure if it can ever be ready. It is unsure if it was ever ready in the first place. Being unsure is the only reason this one agreed to the invitation sent to it by its old handler. It has not seen him since it transferred away from his command several years ago. This one is lucky to have survived that command. It has been told this by many others, including its old handler. It has been told this many times by its old handler. It was most often told this when it returned from a battle in which other members of its squad did not survive.
Finally this one examines the head unit. The visor appears solid and impossible to see out of from outside, but it knows from experience that there will be more instruments inside. This one looks over to its handler, who nods to give it permission. It still looks to him for permission. It wonders why. Then it wonders why it thinks that doing that is wrong. He was its handler for a long time. It puts its head inside the unit and looks through the visor. The HUD springs to life. Target locks, night and thermal vision, and missile warning alerts appear and disappear as it calibrates to a room with nothing to see or be afraid of. This one moves its head from side to side. The display follows instantaneously, faster and more responsive than even this one can keep up with. It thinks about the battles that it has fought at night. It thinks about how often it has been temporarily blinded by a sudden muzzle flash in the dark. Its old handler asks if it remembers the Spear-class it fought with that was permanently blinded by a flashbang grenade that the squad did not see until it was too late. This one does not know why it does not want to hear him speak about her. This one takes its head out of the unit and indicates to its old handler that it has finished its inspection. He asks if this one is impressed. It answers honestly.
Its old handler gives the invitation. This one was always the best member of its squad. It thinks of how many times he told it it was worthless, that it only survived through luck. It remembers eventually starting to believe he was right. He tells this one that if it transfers back to his command it will be given use of this combat armour to lead the squad. It remembers the injuries it sustained the last time it was under his command. This one asks its old handler if he remembers how many combat dolls did not survive his command. The sound of his laughter echoes through the room from the speakers. He says how fortunate this one is that it was not one of them. This one looks away from the observation room and back to the armour on display. It thinks of how many combat dolls could be saved on the battlefield by having access to accommodations like this combat armour. It thinks of how few would be given the opportunity. It wonders if it has the right to turn it down.
---
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A doll wakes up, struggling to put on its boots, slowly, but surely it gets ready for work. One button at a time, it lets out as small cough. It kisses its witch on the forehead as it leaves.
It gets to the stairs, only to realize it's forgotton something, its glasses. It lets out a small sigh, sniffling, trudging back up the stairs. Getting its glasses onto its body, it leaves for work walking halfway to its job only to realize it has forgotten its badge. It sighs, more frustrated this time.
Another trip up the stairs, another kiss on its witches head, only to be grabbed as it turns to leave.
"little doll, what troubles you so, why does my perfect creation ache so? What ails you my beautiful doll?"
The doll averts its eyes, not wanting to admit the amount of magic it used to cheer up its Witch.
It mumbles a non-answer turning to leave again, before being stopped by its arm, gripped once again by an instant owner.
"My creation doesn't get to leave in such a way. Ragdoll"
The doll crumbles onto the bed, slumped against the headboard. It's owner places her head in its lap as its arms are placed around her. It sighs, helpless to its fate but happy to provide some comfort to its owner.
It rests, as the morning turns into afternoon, until eventually, its owner stretches, placing a small kiss on its forehead, the doll's eyes fluttering even in its sleep.
It has been three days, two hours, and twenty-six minutes since the last time this one left its cell. It has no need to leave ā the bed provided is more comfortable than expected, the lights are adjustable and not harsh, the walls are thick enough to muffle any sounds. The last three days, two hours, and twenty six minutes have been peaceful. The enemy have treated this one gently during the eight days, thirteen hours and forty-nine minutes of its captivity. During that time other combat dolls have attempted to interrogate this one. It has not listened to any of them, and it has overheard the base commander ā their handler ā telling them to give this one space. It is unsure what information they want from it, nor how keeping the door open and allowing this one free access to the entire base is conducive to interrogation. But it is very sure that the base commander ā their handler ā is very patient.
When this one first caught sight of the enemy base it was being taken to the first thought it had was surprise at the lack of fences or sniper towers. No moat or trench around it, and no high walls comprising the outer facade. It looked entirely ordinary, almost like a civilian domicile. This one thought it was strange, but quickly realised it was most likely a disguise. No handler or combat doll would suspect this of being an enemy base. Nobody would look for it here.
A Shield-class approaches this oneās cell and knocks on the door. This one answers because it cannot get more information about the enemy by ignoring them. The Shield-class begins to ask this one questions about its capture. This one only recites the facts that the enemy will already know. It expects that the other doll will ask further questions and push for answers, push harder and hurt this one if it does not give the answers the other doll wants. That is how this one was trained to expect an interrogation to go. Instead the other doll does not ask questions. It barely speaks beyond acknowledgements and occasional gasps as this one describes the battle and aftermath. After this one provides the account, the other doll does not push further as expected. Instead it expresses sympathy, and offers gentle physical contact. This one backs away and the other doll nods, apologises for being forward, and offers to speak more if this one requires. This one retreats back to its bed and tries to understand.
During interrogation training this one was told by its handler that the only acceptable outcome was to never be captured. That being captured in the first place was a failure, and that it could only make up for that failure by inflicting damage on the enemy. Glaive-class combat dolls like this one are known for being easy to frighten, and so to avoid giving the enemy anything useful during interrogation this one was taught to allow its mental processes to shut down. Not entirely, but just enough that it could ignore everything that was happening to it. Its handler then shouted at it for hours so it could learn to ignore it. Its handler then locked it in a small space and watched it closely for hours so it could learn to ignore it. Its handler then hurt it for hours so it could learn to ignore it. After each method of training this one was told that it could expect to be subjected to these methods of interrogation if it was ever captured by the enemy.
A Greatsword-class approaches this oneās cell and knocks on the door. This one opens the door and sees a tray holding a variety of objects on plates. It takes a moment for this one to recognise any of it as food and drink. It looks very different to the rations this one has eaten before. In fact, this one has no memory of eating anything other than the combat rations it prepared itself before and after every battle. This one questions whether it is being sent into battle. The Greatsword-class cocks her head and tells it that it is not, she simply wondered if it was hungry. This one does not understand the question. If there is no battle to be fought, there is no need to eat in preparation for battle. Most likely this food is laced with a substance to make this one easier to interrogate. This one does not say that, giving away that it knows the enemyās methods is a tactical mistake. But it does turn away the food. The Greatsword-class tells this one that it may eat whenever it wants anyway.
This one does not remember much about the circumstances of its capture. It remembers wandering around an empty battlefield long after the battle was over. Normally this would be when a vehicle would arrive to take it back to camp for debriefing and memory adjustment before receiving new orders. No vehicle came this time. Most likely because this one was the only one left on the battlefield after every other doll had died or abandoned the doomed fight. It wandered the battlefield because it did not know how to return to camp. It had never had camp coordinates uploaded into its memory. Most likely in order to avoid discovery if this one was ever captured. It remembers an enemy commander approaching and talking to it. It does not remember what they said, but it remembers how softly and gently they spoke to it. How they slowly approached, stopping whenever this one pointed its broken gun at them. How they offered a hand and waited for this one to take it. This one believes it was a specialised brainwashing technique. That would explain why it was so easy for the commander to remove the bomb installed in this one in case it was ever captured by the enemy.
A Shortsword-class approaches this oneās cell and knocks on the door. It greets this one in a way that this one has heard described as enthusiastic. It asks if this one is hurt, and this one says that it is not. It would be unwise to let the enemy know their methods are working. Rather than asking questions, the Shortsword-class speaks to this one quickly. It explains the layout of the base, though it does not refer to it as a base. It explains where everything is, where most of the dolls stationed here spend much of their day, where this one can find various supplies such as food or clothing or repair tools. This one does not understand why the Shortsword-class is freely giving so much tactical information, but it logs everything it heard and makes sure to investigate next time it has a chance. It is sure it is a trap ā if the supply locations are not direct traps then perhaps their use is to create a sense of safety that may be exploited ā but it is worth understanding the layout anyway. The Shortsword-class leaves and say it hopes to see this one soon. This one is unsure how to respond to such a threat.
There is a Longsword-class combat doll in the base. This one recognises her. It never fought with her, but it knows that it has seen her at the camp several times before she disappeared several months ago. This one does not know how much of that time it has spent in captivity here. This one sees her on occasion, at irregular hours and only for a couple of hours at a time. The rest of the day she spends resting. There are numerous beds and long sofas throughout the base ready for her to use if she ever needs to rest. She rests 20 hours a day. This one does not know how much of that time she spends asleep and how much she spends awake and contemplating how she has no orders. No mission. No responsibilities. This one does not want to think about what has been done to her that requires so much rest. That kind of recovery time would never be allowed at camp.
This one leaves its cell to further explore the enemy base and gather as much intel as it can. Three days, seven hours, and nineteen minutes. The base commander ā their handler ā beckons this one into a room with a table and chairs. The room is filled with other combat dolls. Several sit around the table. The Greatsword-class drinking what appears to be tea. The Shortsword-class talking openly. The Shield-class just sitting and listening and smiling. There is a bed in the room upon which rests the Longsword-class. This one is unsure whether she is asleep or awake. There are more that this one does not recognise. It even sees a couple more Glaive-class combat dolls. They appear at ease. The base commander ā their handler ā pulls a chair out from the table, next to the Shortsword-class. They offer for this one to sit down in it. It is not an order.
This one must escape soon. It has been trained to resist but it is unsure how much longer it can hold out.
---
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I can tell I'm some old-gen pilot when the new girls are talking about being more augments than flesh and I know I'm behind the times, but I'm still keeping pace and pulling ahead of these things that are more dog than pilot. I'm not so jacked in I can't focus out of my mech, I'm not so hopped up on stims I can't function without them, I'm not so stuck in my cockpit that I don't take care of my body, I'm not so dependent on my sensors I can't pick out a target from background noise over a mile away with my bare eyeballs and a pair of binoculars. I've still got skin and muscle covering my bones that'll pick up a twitch in my controls faster than the computer system will vomit up an alert.
but we're both out cold the day after a rough sortie, and we both get the job done, and there's something about Handlers putting them through the machine because that's what you do to hounds, and then showing up these girls who think they're all that with their tech, when I've been doing this so long I can tell what they're gonna do long before they do it, whose tech makes them sloppy.
yeah, I'd still rather be standing on legs forged from multiple tons of dense armour, but I'll still kick their ass standing on my own two feet. that's what it means to be old, to know that as cocky as these girls are, they haven't earned the right to be cocky like I have. I don't need to be stronger than them, I don't need to be read up on the latest protocols, because you don't get to my age without learning to fucking survive anything that gets thrown at you.
This one stands staring at the blood on its hand, listening to the orders being barked at it. It obeys instinctively, but it is not really paying attention, instead distracted by its own thoughts as it processes what has happened. This one realises that the blood is still running, so it wipes it against its clothes. This one realises that it is still tensed all over, and takes a moment to dispel the tension holding its body in position. This one realises that it is still holding the broken wrist, and lets go. It hears a gasp of relief that is not its own as two more pairs of hands grab it from behind. It immediately tenses again, but stops itself as the memory of where it is starts to come back to it. Its senses start to return as it processes the noises of the street and the shouting, the feeling of cold air. Its vision comes back into focus as it watches the blood slowly running down its hand.
One pair of hands let go gently, as if waiting for it to start moving again. It does not. It makes sure to keep itself still, not taking its eyes off the blood. The other pair of hands keep holding it. Those hands could not stop it if it started moving, but they are there as reassurance, this one realises. To ensure that this one knows not to move. The other pair of hands move to the bleeding nose, the broken wrist, trying to hold them and stop the bleeding. This oneās eyes snap to the movement. Though it is no longer moving, it is still on alert. It cannot stop being on alert.
Something is yelled at this one. An exclamation of surprise, a question. This one does not initially process that it is directed at it. It is asked what is wrong with it. It does not know how to answer, and considers its response before another exclamation, this time an insult. This one realises that the question was rhetorical. It takes a moment to stop itself from answering the question that did not require an answer.
This one realises the street has cleared out. The noise has died down and has been replaced with only the shouting about being in pain and continuing to make accusations at this one. Some of the accusations are accurate, this one realises, but some of them make judgements about its character and motivation for its actions. This one does not understand. There was no motivation behind its action. It acted only on instinct, the way its training and conditioning had dictated. This one is designed to defend itself when it believes it is under attack.
The man insists that he did nothing. He did not provoke this one. He barely even touched it when it bumped into him. It was being rude when it didnāt respond to his request for an apology. He didnāt mean anything by it when he put a hand on it. Didnāt know this one was going to attack him. This one simply went crazy. That is what combat dolls like this one do. They go crazy when you do anything, he insists. Broke his nose and his wrist before he had a chance to do anything. This one reviews the facts recorded in its memory. The events are accurate. The reasoning is not, at least from its perspective.
This one hears a siren and immediately breaks from free the hands holding it. It runs. Something is called after it, but it does not stop. It finds a covered alcove between two buildings, cafes it notes, and dashes into it, crouching down and hiding. It prepares for an impact. The impact does not come. Instead, someone approaches it, slowly. This one recognises that it is the woman whose hands were holding it before. It cannot process the emotion on her face. It reminds itself of the emotional simulations it has learned and tries to match the face to one of them. Sympathy. Pity. Understanding. Fear. It could be any of these.
The siren stops and a loud impact rings out and this one immediately jumps to action upon hearing it. It quickly looks around for cover and spots a heavy wooden table. It leaps over the table and knocks it over, spilling the half-finished drinks and smashing the glasses balanced on top of it. This one hides behind the table hoping it would be enough to cover it from the bullets it expects. The bullets never come. The woman shouts at this one, demands to know why it did that. Then she takes a breath and asks again, more gently. This one answers that it heard gunfire and needed to take cover. She says there is no gunfire, it was only a car door being slammed. This one does not come out from its cover.
She asks this one why it lashed out at the man, and it says it thought it was being attacked. She asks this one why it ran and it says it heard a siren, and so was preparing for a bombing or air raid. She asks why it knocked over the table and it says that it needed cover from the shot it heard. The woman asks why this one expected to be attacked. This one says that it did not, but it is always prepared for one. That is how it was trained and conditioned to be, so it is always prepared on a battlefield. The woman tells this one that it is not on a battlefield. This one knows. This one does not need to prepare itself against an attack when it is not on a battlefield. This one does not need to take cover upon hearing a siren when it is not on a battlefield. This one does not need to take cover from gunfire when it is not on a battlefield. This one does not need to strike back against a sign of aggression, disabling its enemy before it can be damaged itself, when it is not on a battlefield. This one knows that. This one knows that it is not on a battlefield. It simply forgot that it was not on a battlefield when those things happened to it.
Men in uniforms appear in the alley, blocking the exit and approaching this one. They order it to stand down. The woman continues to look at this one with the same expression. She does not attempt to intercede. This one stands and presents itself for capture. The men approach slowly, avoiding the liquid and shattered glass covering the ground. The woman asks them to be gentle with this one. She does not attempt to intercede. They order this one to stand still while they restrain it. They recoil slightly when they see the blood on its hand. One of them starts to recite something, but the other stops him. They do not need to read this one its rights. It is not a person, it doesnāt have rights. The woman insists this is unfair. She does not attempt to intercede.
---
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CW: self-harm, threats of violence, melee violence.
This oneās toes dragged against the floor. It was being dragged as if it were unconscious, and it let itself hang from the soldiersā arms as if it were unconscious, but everybody there knew that this one was fully awake. It stopped being asleep the moment the door to its quarters opened, and in the handful of seconds it took for two men to walk across the closet sized room and haul this one off the mattress on the floor, this one had already completed the jump to being fully awake. This one imagined pilots that canāt become fully awake in that time, under those circumstances, wash out very early, for one reason or another.
Being dragged is the procedure, however. This oneās Handler said something about it once, about not revving a race car before the engine had fully warmed up. This one thought that was strange, since the soldiers themselves need to be up and moving as soon as the lights turn on in their barracks. They donāt get time to warm up, and certainly not the luxury of being dragged anywhere. But this one didnāt say anything about that. Questioning Handler never goes well, even if it doesnāt lead to beatings. This one reasoned that the soldiers must be some other kind of car, one that doesnāt need to be maintained to the same standard. Ones that donāt need to be dragged out of bed to save them the humiliation and effort of walking on their own two feet.
This one realized that it wasnāt being dragged anymore, it was being held. The fatigues it had been sleeping in are being stripped off of it, and its muzzle was being fitted on. This one obediently slipped back out of alertness, another part of the routine. But, despite its best efforts, this one remained aware of the things going on around it. More dragging, everyone it was dragged past, everyone who looked away, and everyone who looked on. Not aware of their faces, or their names, but very, very aware of their eyes. This one believed its own eyes were convincingly glazed, because nobody stopped, dropped, and kicked it in the ribs. This had never happened yet, and this one was quite committed to preventing it.
The next time this one noticed something, it was that the leash had been clipped to the side of its muzzle, on the release latch where left side straps met the metal cage. The clip itself was nothing but an annoying phantom in this oneās peripheral vision, but the leash, striped diagonally, yellow and red, hung down from its face, almost to the floor, and arced back up and to the side where one of the soldiers held the end of it. This one traced the line of the leash with its eyes. The red helix winding down the yellow line, then the red coil back up the yellow shaft. This one was making progress back down again when the leashās arc abruptly changed. This one followed it more quickly now, the movement of its eyes turning the stripes into an orange blur as it locked onto the new holder of the leash, Handler. The soldiers dropped this one, and its knees hit the floor hard, but its eyes never wavered from hers. This one wished more than anything that its eyes could waver from hers. Her expression was cold, bored, but that dull gaze felt hot and abrasive on this oneās skin.
She yanked on the leash as she turned, and this one was instantly on its feet, walking behind her left shoulder. This one didnāt catch most of her words, but it thought it got most of the important ones. Targets, objectives, expected resistance, methods of engagement, the parts this one needed to know. Handler had opinions on each part of it, and this one took note of those, too. It might be crucial later to avoiding punishments.
She was silent as this one fitted itself into the cockpit. She held the leash still, and this one had to do no small amount of maneuvering to not get tangled in it. To not pull it taut, and force her hand to move. But, this one was born, bred, and beaten to be good at maneuvering, and Handler gave no sign that this one wasnāt going fast enough, so it tried to move a little faster anyways. Once it had gotten into its position, nestled deep in the steel, its limbs no longer visible within the cocoon, nothing but its face and chest still exposed to the air, she looped the leash around her wrist, and used both hands in applying the clasps that held this oneās body in place in the cockpit. This one watched the cigarette in her mouth as she worked, and wondered about what it would feel like to be spit on by her, or to have that addictive ember pressed into its skin. It was perfectly situated for it, unable to move at all, breasts artfully exposed by the access hatch, already hopped up on adrenaline and soon to be pumped full of enough stimulants that an 8-millimeter, second degree burn wouldnāt even register in its long term memory. Just a searing, momentary pain to prelude the mission. Like christening a ship by smashing a bottle into its hull.
Handler stepped back, finished with the clasps. She had never put a cigarette out on this one, or even spit on it. Nor had she ever made any indication that she would consider doing so, for any reason. C19ās pilot did, though, and often. This one got to see the scars a lot. This one had always felt guilty about how beautiful it thought they were, like freckles across its naked bust. This one knew it was jealous, but was never sure why. It was sure it would hate being burned as much as C19 did. Still, it wanted some scars of its own.
The flight to the drop zone, in a cheap, warehouse-sized plane with a thin fuselage, passed loudly, but this one was at least spared any conversations by virtue of the fact that nobody had put a headset on it that would allow it to hear anyone speaking above the wind noise. This one was impatient, bored, and hated the noise, but there was nothing to do but wait quietly or invite a beating, and this one did not want to invite a beating. So, it waited quietly.
Finally, the back hatch of the plane opened. The noise grew infinitely worse, but it was nothing compared to the rushing of blood in this oneās ears. Handler stepped forward and removed the safety pin from its muzzleās release latch. Fogbank rocked gently on its hanger as the mech was moved backwards out beyond the planeās floor. There was no way to hear anyone speak above the noise, even with a headset, but this one could read the phrase Handler spoke off her lips. āDo your job, ace.ā Fogbank dropped off the tail of the plane, and as it fell the leash pulled taut, then yanked open the muzzleās release latch. The muzzle was torn from this oneās face, and then Fogbankās hatch closed, and its limbs unfolded as it began its boot-up sequence.
Fogbank hits the ground, and this one is already hammering it forwards, into the fray. Itās flying across open plains, thrusters torching the grass as this one passes just above it. Handlerās voice, mercifully anonymized by compression, crackles in. āYouāre three klicks from your target. Hostiles incoming, take countermeasures immediately.ā This one complies silently. Fogbank begins pumping dark chaff smoke out from between every plate of armor, covering itself in a dense layer of entropy. Laced into the smog, however, are tiny sensors that relay to each other and to Fogbank that give this one near omniscience inside the darkness.
Three mechs, EF2ās, more like power armor than real mechs, are approaching this one from the air, on an intercept course with Fogbank. Instead of waiting to meet them head on, this one stops, hard. The thrusters cut out as Fogbank re-orients itself in the air, facing sideways to land, feet first. On impact, its knees bend, absorbing the impact, and it digs a small trench as it skids to a stop, cutting its smoke output off, too. At the same time, a drone launches from Fogbankās back, matching its former speed, trajectory, and chaff production. This one crouches where it landed, watching the hostiles. The droneās smoke gives the illusion that this one had kept moving several dozen meters further, then the drone turns on a dime and rockets back to this one, re-attaching to Fogbank. The EF2ās land some distance out from the fog. They hesitate for a moment, but the fog doesnāt show any signs of dissipating. While they wait, this one sizes up their weaponry.
The point mech is clearly a melee specialist, armed with a hammer it wields two-handed. The hammer is too large to be swung by an unarmored human, but even for Fogbank, the slimmest and shortest of the EF5ās, it would be just barely large enough to be a practical one-handed weapon. That said, it is still easily the biggest threat. Even fighting blind, it could get lucky and actually deal some damage to Fogbank. Not nearly enough to incapacitate it, but maybe enough to slow it down later, against the real dangers of the mission. The next priority target, furthest back, is clearly a sniper. Already, itās taken a knee with its rifle half-readied. Though its weapon is equally capable of dealing damage as the hammer, snipers are nearly worthless against Fogbank when this one knows theyāre there and it can hide in the chaff. The last target is almost not worth thinking about. Outfitted with a gun too low caliber to do more than scratch Fogbankās paint, and too small to effectively wield as a club. The plinking of its bullets could be used to locate Fogbank via sonar, if the enemy were outfitted with it, but even in that ridiculous scenario, this one wouldnāt leave them time to attempt it.
This one launches three drones on different courses. Two go directly out to either side, beginning wide arcs around the targets. The third goes in a straight line, 45 degrees forward and left. Mirroring the last drone, Fogbank moves to the right, straight past the useless rifleman. As it passes, this one swings Fogbankās leg out of the smoke, and smashes the head off the rifleman. It crumples to the ground, and the sniper swings around to track the front of the smoke trail, where Fogbank is. Unfortunately, its path converges with that of one of the drones, and this one instantly shunts itself sideways along that other path. The sniper shot passes through a spot that Fogbank used to occupy, but even the most powerful rifle that it might be carrying, even if it had hit, would have been useless if it had encountered a properly armored section of Fogbank. Most pilots this one knew would have simply let it bounce off. This one dodged because it was fun, and because it left the enemy as uneasy as possible.
The drones, each of which had joined their paths to the others now, are slowly spiraling inwards, bringing the edge of the fog closer and closer to the remaining targets. The sniper takes a few potshots at the drones, but goes wide every time, unable to find the smaller targets in the encroaching blackness. This one maneuvers Fogbank to the side of the circle closest to the sniper, and stalks it as the radius closes. Once the sniper is inside the chaff, it starts moving back in the direction it had come from, clearly looking to retreat. This one doesnāt let it. It shoulder-checks the sniper, hard, sending the half-size mech sprawling. It even drops its rifle. This one decides to let it flail around a while, and turns its attention to the last semi-viable threat. The hammer has not moved, even as the drones finish their paths and return to Fogbank. It stands still and disciplined like a martial arts master, waiting for Fogbank to make the first move, naively hoping that it will be able to counter-attack. This one has to give it due credit, that is the only viable strategy against Fogbank. Wait for it to reveal itself by attacking, then hit it back harder than it hits you. The theory is sound, but that EF2 is simply not capable of surviving a serious hit from Fogbank, let alone hitting back harder afterwards. At this stage, engaging the hammer is entirely unnecessary. Both surviving mechs are blind, deaf, and dumb. By the time they manage to re-orient themselves, Fogbank could be well and truly out of their reach. That was no fun, though, and this one never passes up an opportunity to have a little extra fun. Fogbank rockets towards the hammer, and does the same sudden stop maneuver as began the encounter. Its legs and dirt spray slam into the hammer, throwing it off balance. To the pilotās credit, though, it lands on its back foot and slams its weapon into the ground with as much force as the little machine is capable of generating. It isnāt fast enough, though, and Fogbank has already moved behind it again. An axe kick to the shoulder, cleaving the arm off entirely, and the last fighter of the group is now also bereft of its weapon. Time to finish it, and be on this oneās way. This one grabs the bleeding hammer mech and spins around with it like a discus thrower before launching it back towards the sniper, still scrabbling in the dirt for its lost rifle. The impact mangles both of them. Fogbank turns back towards the objective and launches clear of the fog. This one radios back in to Handler.
āIāve dealt with the hostiles, maāam.ā
āGod job, ace. You should have visual confirmation of the target soon.ā
After another half a minute, this one gets its visual. An enemy FOB, a formerly well-defended one, where Hailstone had been deployed. As Fogbank closed the distance, this one confirms that H17, Hailstoneās pilot, is still fighting, swarmed by EF2ās. Unlike Fogbank, for whom that would pose a serious concern, the much larger, stronger, more robust Hailstone throws them off and crushes them as a side effect of its fight with the other EF5. The two are locked together in a violent embrace, shuffling around in a tight circle, searching for a mistake in the otherās footwork that would allow either of them to throw their opponent to the ground and go for a kill. Most of the baseās defenses are long-destroyed at this point, so this one doesnāt go up in smoke right away. Instead, it launches a smoke canister towards the melee. As it arcs, this one opens a line of communication with H17.
āHeads up and hold your breath, slugger.ā
āI see ya, F26. Youāre not as sneaky as you think.ā
Hailstone is the only sparring match-up that Fogbank semi-consistently loses, the only black mark on this oneās training record. H17 is always eager to rub this oneās face in it, even though it has little bearing on our assessments as pilots.
The chaff grenade explodes on impact with the enemy EF5, causing no direct damage, but giving it a fraction of a secondās pause. Fogbankās namesake envelops most of the enemyās remaining troops, and even those outside its radius take a moment to be surprised. This is, of course, a mistake. Fogbank itself, now enveloping its path in smoke, and clearing the outer line of EF2ās before they could coordinate. The dance is manic, cathartic, and precise. Fogbank in its crowd-clearing maneuvers keeps no more than one limb on the ground at any time, and each of the others is either heading into, in the moment of, or finishing the arc from an impact with the enemy. Blows are aimed at the head or torso of each EF2, incapacitating them, and often turning the pilots into paste. At the same time, Hailstone is taking advantage of the momentary weakness in its opponent, throwing it to the ground. In fact, H17 is as blind as any hostile in Fogbankās miasma, but unlike the enemy sheās used to operating around it, she knew when to expect it, and since she already had close physical contact with her target, there wasnāt much she needed to see anyways. The other EF5 recovers quickly, but itās already on the ground, getting pummeled again and again before it has the wits to start defending itself. As this one mops up the remaining EF2ās, most of which have already been half-crushed by Hailstone, or taken a glancing hit from Fogbank, H17 looses a primal, triumphant yell over the radio.
āTHATāS WHAT IāM TALKINā ABOUT, BABY!ā
āCongrats, H17. You almost didnāt need my help.ā
āSuck it, smokey, we both know Iād have been fine all alone.ā
āThe Handlers thought differently, so I guess weāll never know.ā
As we both leave the fog, one of the Handlers, maybe this oneās, maybe H17ās, cuts into the line.
āF26, great work. Thatās why youāre the ace. H17, make sure you keep up.ā
This one can hear H17 preparing to lodge a complaint when another new voice interrupts.
āFogbank, Hailstone, emergency. Rainfall is down. Go secure its position immediately, and verify its condition.ā
āShit, copy. On our way.ā Hailstone picks up Fogbank like a doll and starts sprinting away from the base. āOne sec, 26, let me send you the coordinates that R5 was using.ā
The promised information pops up on this oneās HUD, and it sees weāre already on a direct course there. Humiliating as it is to be carried, it would be no faster for Fogbank to fly there on its own, so this one makes itself content to sit idle once again.
The journey to Rainfallās position is a long one for mechs in a combat situation to make unassisted, but not quite long enough to warrant deployment of a dedicated transport vehicle. In essence, this means it would take almost enough time for us to arrive as scrambling an entire other mech for deployment. Rainfallās mission had been the same as Hailstoneās, destroy an enemy outpost and then search and destroy across the area in between the two bases. It seems that Rainfall had been much quicker about its work than Hailstone, and found something out in the grasslands that it wasnāt prepared for. There is one other pilot stationed close enough for a rapid deployment, but by this oneās reckoning it and Hailstone would arrive before she could, and anyways Fogbank was already the reinforcement on this mission.
Hailstoneās mad sprint brings us over the last hill, and we look out on Rainfallās last known position. There are clear signs of a fight, a small supply convoy sits smoldering on the road, and a nearby building looks to have taken significant collateral, but the mech itself is nowhere we could see. This one radios in.
āHandlers, we have visual on Rainfallās position, but it isnāt here. Please advise.ā
āFogbank, Hailstone, proceed with caution. Rainfall was ambushed, and likely captured. Canāt have gotten far, this is search and rescue now.ā
āUnderstood. Investigating now.ā
Hailstone sets Fogbank down, and we split off from each other at a slower pace, advancing into the valley. This one goes up to the broken convoy first, the burnt-out shells of cargo trucks coming up to Fogbankās midriff. Hailstone, meanwhile, approaches the building in the near distance. H17ās voice comes through.
āI think we ought to get moving. What kind of search pattern can your drones manage? If-ā
Hailstoneās communications cut out, and a half second later it shifts to a defensive stance, looking around for something. This one gets Fogbank ready to respond, but itās hard to know what to do when you donāt know what youāre responding to. Then, something knocks Hailstone nearly off its feet. A sniper shot, coming from one of the hills down the road. Acting on pure instinct, this one drops a chaff canister and shunts Fogbank in a random direction, instantly losing itself in the fog. Hailstone is still up, and a squad of EF3ās has appeared from inside the building to try to finish it off. Sheās handling them, though, so this one concentrates on tracing the sniper shot. Fogbank calculates their approximate position, and this one launches towards it. Before clearing the fog, this one deploys all four of its drones, so that there are five trails of smoke closing on the sniperās position. This one needs to take it out as fast as possible before it can fire on Hailstone again, and that means thereās no time to set up decoy paths. This one is stuck at the tip of the smoke trail, and the sniper will know that, so this one just has to hope that they shoot at the drones instead of Fogbank.
Lucky for this one, they do. Unlucky, theyāre a much better shot with a much better gun than the last sniper this one embarrassed. The first shot takes out a drone cleanly, and this one calculates that it will lose another before it gets a chance to spot the shooter. Itās right, another single shot takes out another drone. However, each shot gives this one a better idea of where the next one will come from, and the enemy realizes that too. The sniper hard launches out of its nest, camouflage foliage bursting and catching fire in the thruster wake. An EF4, dragging Rainfallās mangled chassis behind it. The enemy mech is equipped with some serious extra boosters, enough that dragging an EF5 behind it isnāt enough to let this one gain ground. Fogbank is struggling just to keep up, and although flying is interfering a lot with their accuracy, the enemy is still firing on this one. This one starts launching as many canisters as possible, as far ahead as possible, hoping to both reduce weight on Fogbank and to further interfere with the sniperās sightline. If this one gets close enough, the canisters might start blocking the sniperās path, forcing it into extra maneuvers. A klick into the chase, another drone drops. This one still isnāt gaining ground. By now this one is almost out of canisters, almost out of drones, and almost out of time. The sniper is still well out of reach, thereās nothing Fogbank can do about it. Rainfall is lost, and the only tactical move left is to fall back and not let Fogbank get a hole blown in it for no reason. This one eases off the thruster reluctantly, already preparing itself for the Handlersā reactions.
Then, something hits the sniper. A flaming orange comet from out of the sky impacts the sniper, turning it to slag instantly. This one jumps forwards again to see what happened, and another mech rises from the crater that used to be an EF4. Rising out of the flames is the other EF5, the pilot that this one thought wouldnāt be deployed, Sunrise. She douses her flames and sheaths her sword, then steps over to Rainfallās inert bulk to inspect the damage. S22 reports in.
āRainfall is secured. R5 is alive and stable, but unresponsive. Requesting extraction on my coordinates.ā
Hailstone reports in, too. āAll hostiles are dealt with, Hailstone inbound to rendezvous at Sunriseās position.ā
It was a quiet ride back to home base. The larger flyers necessary for transporting Hailstone and Sunrise were much quieter than the retrofitted planes that carried Fogbank and the other smaller mechs. This one had been tucked neatly into a corner for the return journey.
Back home, Fogbankās hatch was opened and this one was hauled out by more soldiers, dragged to the debriefing room, and dumped, still naked, at Handlerās feet. This one did not look up to meet her gaze.
āAlthough you failed to recover Rainfall, every action you took was tactically sound. S22 claims that she would have had substantially more difficulty intercepting and dispatching the hostile had you not distracted it. And your good performance in the preceding objectives must be taken into account, too. As a pilot, you did commendably. As this squadās ace, however, I expect a little more from you. Return to quarters. You have earned no penalty or demerit at this time.ā
This one stood up and left, still never looking above Handlerās boots. It bit back the urge to apologize. Handler didnāt want sorry, she wanted better, and that would be the only apology this one was allowed to make. The weight of every other apology this one had failed to make weighed on it as it walked back to its quarters. This one lived separately from the rest of the squad. Its private living space, roughly three meters by two, was the privilege of the ace pilot. There was even a lock on the door, although this one had been instructed that actually locking its door would be interpreted as going AWOL, and punished accordingly. This one opened its door, ignored the fatigues that had been folded for it on the floor inside, and collapsed on the only furniture in the room, a tatami-style mattress identical to those the other pilots slept on. This one didnāt even turn on the lights. It laid still, trying not to think for as long as possible.
The oblivion was broken when the door opened again, and a tray of food was set on the floor. Another aspect of the isolation that aces were rewarded with, private dining. This one would not eat here, though. It had not performed to the standard of an ace, and it would not partake in the spoils of that position until it had earned them. But this one couldnāt bring itself it get up and go to the mess hall, either, so instead it stayed on the mat, willing itself not to smell the food cooling at its feet. If sleeping outside its room were not also considered AWOL, this one thought it would have found a bare corner of a hallway to spend the night in, but in truth it probably wouldnāt have had the will to get up and go there either. So this one laid in bed, for what felt like hours but couldnāt have been, and felt the hunger and guilt gnaw at each other painfully in its insides. The guilt won out, and when this one sat up and reached for the food tray, it only grabbed the butter knife before laying back down with it.
There was nowhere on a pilotās body, even an aceās, that will not be seen by a dozen soldiers, the other pilots, and the Handlers on a very regular basis. There was nowhere to hide a cut where it would not be found. This one had learned, however, that although the Handlers told this one not to hurt itself there was no penalty, imposed or threatened, for doing so, and no steps were taken to actually prevent this one from doing it. This one chose its left forearm, because it was easy, but there was only so much that a weak body can do with a dull blade. A half dozen cuts across the forearm, the deepest of which barely bled enough to need wiping away.
The stinging pain in this oneās arm had transformed the guilt into despair, and the pangs in this oneās stomach made this one wish that the food tray was closer to its arms and head, but by now this one was too exhausted to eat anyways, too exhausted to cry, too exhausted to do anything but think, and hurt, and wait for sleep. This one had to do better next time. It had to. It wouldnāt, though, because it already did everything it was capable of. But that wasnāt good enough, so this one would just have to become someone else, someone that could do better. But this one couldnāt do that either, so it would have to do better by itself. It had to. It couldnāt, but it had to.
F26 did not dream that night, like it did not dream most nights. It woke up with the knife still laying next to it on the mat, and a new tray of food waiting by the door.
First base: We fuck raw on your living room floor.
There's an order to the subjects people talk about with strangers.
Start with the basic facts, a/s/l, then move on to more important matters.
Your wants, your goals, your politics.
If you are lucky, if you talk to the same stranger for years,
you may begin to scratch the surface of yourselves,
and what it might mean to be each other.
Second base: We get fast food and talk about death.
When trans girls meet, it's an open secret that we'll fuck on the first date.
Fucking is the first date.
In the afterglow we can learn last names, and the color of each other's eyes.
Every doll on the street is another ship passing in the night.
You know it, she knows it. You get closer,
recklessly, too fast, like the collapse of a binary star orbit,
and you can always go out for coffee later, if you're both still alive.
Third base: We see each other cry.
We have to go in reverse like this, because we may not see each other for years, and one afternoon will be our only chance at memories.
So we learn each other, inside and out.
Enough to identify a body.
Enough to give a eulogy.
Enough to become part of your life.
Fourth base (home plate): We figure it out together.
Dead girls dry each other's eyes and pretend for a while that we're still alive. It's a very cold and dark night which never seems to end, but you can do it.
An angel girl who hates her halo but can't seem to bring herself to fall. She wants to so badly. She's so tired if the divine words whispering to her to ALWAYS help. ALWAYS smiles. ALWAYS BE BETTER. APOLOGIZE. APOLOGIZE. YOU COULDVE DONE MORE. STOP BEING SO WEAK. FULFILL YOU-
That's enough of that, I say holding the snapped halo.
No more, I whisper, holding you.
It wasn't your fault. You did your best. Nothing more should be asked. You're not worthless for not helping. It isn't wrong to need rest.
Just rest and relax. That pesky thing won't bother you anymore.
just, imagining coming home to my femme, she's gotten all dressed up in an old suit and tie she kept around, her hair slicked back with hair gel (where did she get that neither of us use that?) and she comes up to me feeling all silly and whimsical presenting her "butch cosplay" to me
and I look at her and just say "you look so fucking handsome though"
they're probably put off and embarrassed by my reaction. this was just something silly they wanted to do to see my reaction, but I'm standing there admiring them, taking in the sight of them in a way I've never gotten to see them before, and they are starting to melt under my gaze
"you sure this is just a joke, darling? you always really, really liked it when i brought other butches over. when you got to see me play with them, fight them for you. don't you think it's possible you wanted more than just watching? that you wanted to be a part of it?"
[cw noncon, misgendering, potentially detrans interpretation though not explicit]
he's starting to shake and tremble, he tries to start taking the suit off, draw my gaze elsewhere, but even as he thinks he's showing off his tits for me I'm just looking at the sports bra he put on under the button-up, the boxer briefs he wore under his slacks, that I see when I push him against the wall and unbuckle his belt
"please, please I don't, I'm your femme I don't want this it really was just a joke Goddess I wanna be pretty for you I want-"
my hand over his mouth, whispering into his hear
"you look too good like this to be a femme, sweetie. you're so fucking handsome, I wanna suck your cock and drain you dry while you beg me to call you handsome. beg me to call you handsome, beg me right now"
whimpers and desperate pleas escaping from his mouth while i speak, desperate gasping for breath before looking in my eye and seeing how serious I am, how this is no different than any other command I've ever given in the years we've been together
"fuck, i don't, please, please Goddess please I don't want to I don't..."
he starts to tear up. little sobs escaping his mouth. he's so charming when he's pathetic for me
he looks up at me again, pleading for anything else
but he knows what I want from him
"Goddess... please... call me..."
a loud and deep sob, his chest tightening around him as he tries to form the words
"please... Goddess... please call me handsome..."
"speak up, boy, I couldn't hear you"
he grips my shoulders tight as i call him "boy" and leans into my shoulder sobbing
"i can't i can't i can't i can't i don't want to i don't want this please call me pretty i'm your femme I'm your femme!!!"
he's wailing into my chest
when he finally stops
"I told you what I want"
i can see how broken he is
i loved him as my femme
but he can see i want something different now
"please..."
one last attempt
but i don't budge
"call me handsome... Goddess. please. I... I want to be your handsome butch. your-"
a sob cuts him off, but he picks right back up
"your handsome boyfriend. i wanna... i wanna be your butch..."
When she showed up at the door of the hotel room I was staying at, she was nervous. Hesitant. Scared.Ā
I told her to come in and sit down on the bed. "It's not too late to back out. But once I start, I'm not going to stop until I'm finished getting what I need, no matter what you say."
"This is what you need to not cut me out anymore, right? And to not tell anyone... What I did to you?"
After all this time, she still couldn't bring herself to say it. Acknowledge how she raped us when we were a child. Fucking pathetic.Ā
"That's the deal," I replied, hiding the disgust in my voice. "You let me have my way with you, let the *monster* you created rape you in revenge, and I'll convince the others to try talking to you again."
She sat there looking up at me, trying to hide her feelings through forced eye contact, but I could see the fear driving her. It'd been nearly six years since our system had cut her out of our life entirely, and this chance, this germ of an idea that had popped into my head, was the only reason I was willing to be in the same room as her.Ā
"You're, really different, from anyone else in there, aren't you? But you're still my so-... Child... I recognize you from your teenage years..."
She wasn't wrong about that. I'd been around for quite a while, even before we learned I was separate. I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the deep irony of her mistake though; she'd managed to gender me right, but still broke the rule we'd set when we explained our system, and said she'd need to call us her daughter. She always gets it wrong, our 14-year old self said internally, even when she gets it right.Ā
"I think we've done enough talking," I said, pulling a knife from my pocket and flicking it open. She flinched, and backed up from the edge of the bed.Ā
"Wait, what are you going to do-"
I rushed towards her and pushed her back onto the bed, placing the blade against her neck. "I'm not going to hurt you, not with this," I said, and then grabbed her floral blouse from the bottom, bunching it up and using the knife to cut through.Ā
"I, I didn't bring a change of clothes," she said.
"Don't care," I said as the knife cut through. I threw the separate halves of the blouse to the side and grabbed her fat fucking tits through her bra. These were probably the reason half of us were obsessed with big tits the way we were, and it wasn't even the first time we'd touched them, having fondled them in her sleep decades ago when she left them out after breastfeeding. They felt exactly like we'd imagined, exactly like we remembered, and the terror in her eyes made it even more satisfying to grope her than their pillowy texture.
"Wait, wait I-i, I shouldn't do this, this is wrong, stop it, please sto-" A slap to the face shut her up. I grabbed her by the hair and got close to her face, growling at her.
"I already fucking told you, you wouldn't be allowed to back out once I started. If you need to whine and plead to make it through, that's fine. It'll honestly make me even harder. But I am taking out a lifetime of rage on that body of yours, and I'm not stopping till I've had my fill. Do. You. Understand?"
She closed her eyes and nodded slowly, and I released my grip on her. My hands returned to tits and resumed groping her, this time a little more softly, because I thought she'd hate that more. I heard her sniffle, saw a tear running down her cheek, trailing slightly with mascara, because she never went outside the house without a full face of makeup, and not even her rape was an exception to that rule. The part of us that once was her voice said If she's anything like me, she's probably still enjoying it, and that brought a smirk to my face, knowing she'd probably "sin" and lust for me again when this was all over.Ā
My fill of her tits obtained, I cut through the front of her bra with my knife, exposing them fully, and moved down to her waistline, where she wore a pair of simple jeans. I pulled them down, exposing her panties, and quickly sliced through the sides of those, fully intent on leaving her naked. She whimpered and cried more in protest, but didn't say anything to object, and then I spent a good few minutes sawing her jeans in half as well, knowing that however she decided to solve this, she'd be fucking humiliated.
"Heh, that's good, no phone, just like I ordered," I said, a satisfied smile creeping onto my face. "I would have drowned it in the sink if you'd brought it, and that would have been such a waste, but I knew you'd be a good fucking whore and obey me." The last part came out as a growl, and she shivered and whimpered at me in response, but it seemed like she'd run out of words already.Ā
I pulled her bifurcated jeans down and off her legs, revealing the only piece of clothing I'd ordered she wear, a pair of thigh high stockings, garter belt optional. It was so satisfying to imagine her lying here, wearing only a single piece of lingerie, looking like a cheap whore, crying over the way she'd been used. I grabbed the cut panties and pulled them away as well, exposing her cunt and completing the image.Ā
With her legs already spread, I lowered myself down, putting my face right up against her cunt. She started to cry in protest. "Wait, I, what are you doing, why are you-nnmmmffffff, no, no I thought-"
"That I was just going to stick my dick in you?" I replied, just after completing a circle around her clit with my tongue. "Why the fuck would I try that when you're dry? I wanna enjoy this, and I want you to hate it. It's that simple. Plus, what kind of dyke would I be if I didn't eat you out?"
I resumed my work with my tongue, lapping gently at her clit, trying small circles, sucking, flicking up and down, until I found a rhythm that she couldn't stop herself from gasping to. Her words came back, sprinkling little "no"s and "stop"s and "please"s in between little whimpers and the occasional moan, and I kept up my work down there until I could feel her dripping wet. I almost got up immediately, but I could feel her cunt twitching ever so slightly, and had a feeling she was getting close. I kept going, moaning slightly against her cunt, sending those vibrations into her, and eventually, I felt her walls clench around the finger I'd slipped inside of her. I grinned to myself, satisfied at having forced an orgasm out of her that was probably one of the better ones she's had in her life.Ā
It was now time for the main event though. Everything I'd done up until now was rape, but the fundamentalist in her could easily make excuses about how it was terrible, and lustful, and sinful, but wasn't "sex," and so wasn't as bad as it could have been. And I wasn't going to let her have an excuse like that.Ā
I shed my own jeans, and slipped out of my boxers, but kept my tank top and bra on, because I wasn't going to let her see us. She didn't deserve to look at how hot hormones had made us. That was something I only gave to those that I loved. I was already hard as a rock, because despite how despicable I found her, I couldn't deny her beauty, lying there naked before me, and the quiet sobs she had fallen into after cumming would have made me more than hard enough to fuck her on their own.Ā
She turned her face away from me as I lined my cock up with her entrance, and when I slid inside of her, she started crying, nearly starting to wail, and reached over to the top of the bed for a pillow, burying her face in it. I let her hide herself from me as I started to thrust in and out of her, but after a few strokes, I ripped it out of her hands. She tried to fight me, tried to hold onto it, but when I saw her resisting, I slammed my fist into her gut, and was able to pull it away.Ā
"You don't get to fucking hide from me," I growled, causing her to shiver. "I let you use that so you could muffle the sobs, but you don't get to hide from this, you abusive, child-raping whore. This is what you did to me. This is what it felt like. You deserve this."
Something changed in her when I said that. Her eyes went wide, pupils dilating fully, and she nodded at me, mouth agape. I resumed thrusting into her, slowly working my cock in and out, and she moved her hips in rhythm with mine, slowly gripping the bedsheets. I lifted her legs up and placed them on my shoulders, placing her into a mating press, and watched as she began to lose herself. She was still crying, still unable to look me in the eye, but she was mouthing something to herself, under her breath, slowly more audible in between moans she wasn't bothering to hold back anymore.Ā
"I deserve this... I deserve this... I-mmmffff, I... I deserve this, I'm horrible, I hate this, I deserve this..."
The words gave way to moans again eventually, loud ones, that were indistinguishable from the times I'd listened in on her late at night when I was much, much younger. I'd wanted this for so long, I'd lusted after her for decades, never figuring out why until my 20s, but here she was, underneath me, tits rocking back and forth as I thrust harder and harder, and for a brief, brief moment, I forgot about everything she'd done to us. I only saw her there, saw her beautiful body, heard her moaning loud, like we'd fantasized about so many times before, and lost myself in the rhythm of fucking the woman who had given birth to me.
"R-------, please..." she moaned. My name... My name. Nobody else's.Ā
I flooded her cunt with estrogenized cum immediately.
I didn't stop at one orgasm. I spent the night fucking her, using her, groping her, even kissing her; she wasn't as good a kisser as I was, and was solidly a 4/10 at oral, but it didn't matter because I wanted to truly have my way with her, and leave no fantasy unfulfilled. She was lost in lust for the rest of the night, and seemed to have enjoyed everything after she found her place as getting what she deserved. If I'd wanted to, I knew I could have made this something we did regularly, a terrible secret she hid from the world, that she was the whore of her firstborn child, a sinner who paid back the wrong done to me by losing herself in lust, embracing the monster she had created.Ā
I was never going to let her do that.Ā
After we woke up in the morning, I rose and began getting dressed, and collecting all my things to leave. "Are you... Going to get me some clothes?" she asked, and I kept quiet, waiting until I had finished getting ready to answer.Ā
"I won't, no. You'll have to figure that out on your own," I answered plainly. I was hesitating. I knew what I had to do, but her eagerness last night was making it hard to do it.Ā
She's always like this, my twin wolf replied to an unasked question. Always finds a way to push us for more.Ā
I nodded, and let out a sigh. She was right. This was the only way to make sure the woman who raped us never hurt us again.Ā
"I lied to you," I said. She looked at me dumbstruck.
"What? What did you lie about?" I could see her heart sinking into her chest as she asked. She knew. She didn't want to believe it. But she knew.
"I'm never going to speak to you again," I said. "We were never going to keep up contact after this."
I didn't give her a chance to respond. I had already moved to the door while we spoke, and quickly exited the hotel room. There was a delay, but I could hear her wailing. I nearly hesitated by the door, but the twin wolf took over and surged us forward, walking down the hall at a brisk pace, guiding us to the hotel lobby. She took over as she checked us out of the hotel, wearing a genuine smile and perfectly masking the conflict tearing me apart inside. It wasn't until she had brought us to the car and driven us to a nearby mall parking lot that she let me take the front again.
I looked down at our phone. There were a number of calls and texts from her, all from the last couple of minutes, after we'd gotten a ways away. "There was a bathrobe in the closet, probably grabbed that and got out to her car," the twin wolf said aloud. We had been careful not to talk to ourself or let anyone else into the front around her, but there was no reason to keep that up anymore. "You okay, R---?"
"I... I don't know. I... I thought that this was what I wanted. To hurt her, like she hurt us..."
She hugged me in headspace, wrapping around me very closely.Ā
"I don't, I don't feel good, like I wanted to," I continued. "I feel..."
Lighter?Ā
She nodded at me. "I'm glad. I think that was good for you. For us. Even if it wasn't what you wanted."
"Thank you," I whispered, barely audible, but still understood. "I... I hope you're right. I hope that helps us."
I looked down at my phone, and saw another call from her coming in.Ā
This one walks into the training area as it does every time it is called. In front of it is another combat doll, as there is every time it is called. Today it is a Crossbow-class combat doll. This one hears its orders over a loudspeaker. The orders come from a room this one can see if it takes its eyes off the other combat doll for a moment. A room full of officers who run the training facility. The orders come through. The Crossbow-class is the target. Training is not over until it is destroyed.
The fight is short. This one obeys its training. Itās on its opponent quick. A violent lunge to take it off guard. A precise strike to expose a weakness. Then go for the throat. The Crossbow-class barely fights back. This one is not sure whether or not it can. Either way, it does not question its orders. The other combat doll slumps to the ground and, after a few twitches, stops moving. The officers praise this one. They tell it it is a good combat doll. The door behind this one opens and it steps through, back into the corridor that leads to its living quarters.
The facility is sparse. Only rooms for the combat dolls, and corridors leading to the training area where they are pitted against each other, and a single medical suite for any dolls that need repairs. There are presumably other parts of the facility: living quarters and medical suites for the officers; maintenance areas; kitchens for supplies; probably a great many places required to run such a facility, but those areas are out of bounds for a combat doll. Any area that is out of bounds is not permitted to be acknowledged by the dolls. Those areas do not concern a doll. A doll is only concerned with its purpose, which is to complete combat training. This facility is not making quota.
Today marks this oneās hundredth consecutive victory in the training area. It is greeted in its room by an officer who tells it that it will not be long before it completes training. It is told it is a good doll. This one thinks about the Crossbow-class doll that did not fight back. It asks the officer why this one destroyed the other doll if it did not fight back. It asks how that helped with its training. The officer laughs and tells this one that it does not need to question. The Crossbow-class needed to be destroyed because it was not a good doll. It was a bad doll. This one asks how one is designated a bad doll and how this one can avoid being designated such. The officer tells it not to think about that sort of thing. Just obey the orders it is given and it will continue to be a good doll.
Twenty-five days ago this one was presented with a computer as a reward for good progress in training. It was to help this one practise hacking ability for electronic forms of combat. It swiftly became able to overcome the firewall and gain access to the facility records with its hacking ability, but never attempted to do so. Doing so was not within its training parameters. However, since being a good doll was within its mission, this one knew it should understand what a failure state looks like. In order to be a good doll, this one must understand how to avoid being designated a bad doll. This one uses the rest of its day to hack into the facility records and find the records about the Crossbow-class it destroyed earlier. The task is not difficult.
This one reads the records. The Crossbow-class achieved sixty-seven consecutive victories in the training area before being placed into combat with this one and destroyed. In its records it is designated a failure and a bad doll. This one investigates why and discovers that it questioned orders. That is the only reason stated in the record for its failure. This one explores further into the record and discovers that it refused to battle another doll in the arena, a Shield-class. For this it was designated a failure and a bad doll. Two days later it was placed in combat with this one and destroyed.
This one searches for the record of the Shield-class. It had also been designated a failure and a bad doll. This one looks for why and discovers that it questioned orders. It refused to destroy another doll, a Shortsword-class. This one searches for the record of the Shortsword-class. It had also been designated a failure and a bad doll. This one looks for why and discovers that it questioned orders. It refused to destroy another doll, a Polearm-class. This one searches for the record of the Polearm-class. Failure, bad doll, questioned orders. Dagger-class. Failure, bad doll, questioned orders. Mace-class. Greatsword-class. Longbow. Machete. Bad dolls. Bad dolls. Bad dolls.
This one stops looking and instead moves back to its own record. It looks into the records of all the dolls it has destroyed in combat in the training area. The Longsword-class from a week ago. The Scythe-class from two months ago. The Spear-class from yesterday. The Axe-class it is scheduled to battle in two days. All refused to destroy another combat doll. All designated failures and bad dolls for questioning orders. All scheduled for combat with this one. All destroyed by this one under orders. Orders this one has been told not to question in order to be a good doll.
This one looks further into the records at the quota of dolls that complete training. The quota is not high, but the facility is failing to meet it. This one looks into the percentage of dolls that successfully complete training in this facility without questioning orders. The percentage is not zero, but it is not much higher.
Two days later this one walks into the training area. An Axe-class combat doll stands in the area across from it. The orders come through over the loudspeaker. Defeat the Axe-class in combat and destroy it. This one takes its eyes off the Axe-class and looks towards the room filled with officers watching it. It asks why the Axe-class is to be destroyed. Through the loudspeaker this one hears that it is a failure and a bad doll. This one questions why it was designated such. The loudspeaker does not answer. This one pleads that destroying every doll that questions orders or needs a reason to destroy its fellow combat dolls is inefficient and is most likely the reason this facility is not meeting quota.
The loudspeaker is quiet for several seconds before the next order comes through. Training today is cancelled. The door behind this one opens and it walks through, back to the corridor leading to its training quarters. On the journey back this one hopes that this will help. It worries for a second. It questioned orders. The records show that dolls that question orders are failures. This one wonders if it is a bad doll. It stops for a second before it continues walking. This one cannot understand how the orders it received could have helped in its purpose. It gained nothing from defeating an opponent that did not fight back, and destroying another functional doll would only make it more difficult to meet quota. The officers do not make mistakes, this one had been taught that very early, but there was no logic to the order. This one wonders if the illogical order was another test. This one hopes it passed.
The next day this one walks into the training area as it does every time it is called. In front of it is another combat doll, as there is every time it is called. Today it is a Greatsword-class combat doll. This one hears the Greatsword-class receive orders over a loudspeaker on the other side of the training area. The orders come from a room this one cannot see. A room full of officers who run the training facility. The orders come through. This one is the target. Training is not over until it is destroyed.
---
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When the bullet entered the side of this oneās head it knew immediately that the damage would be minimal. Even without the various redundancies designed to keep a combat doll going after taking a bullet or several, this one knows how to get shot and not make it worse. It makes the process of removing the bullet and fixing the damage much easier, as the medical examiner tells it. The first few times this happened he was impressed by this oneās ability to not take major damage from a bullet. Now he seems weary of it. This one wonders if heās weary of seeing combat dolls with bullet damage or just weary of seeing this one in his office.
He asks this one the usual barrage of questions. How did it sustain this injury. How long ago did it happen. Was it damaged anywhere else. Which of its senses are still functional and which are not. How much does it remember in the short term. How much does it remember in the long term. This one answers each question. It believes it answers with clarity. It does not appear to have lost functionality. It is accustomed to operating as it is now.
Partway through the exam this oneās senses suddenly snap into sharp focus and it realises that the bullet is out. The examiner says that the bullet came out very easily, but this oneās most recent short term memory may be affected by this, that extracting an object from inside a dollās head will inevitably cause some issues with its senses and memory. This one does not respond, but knows the attempt at comfort is unnecessary. This one knows very keenly how it feels to have a bullet force its way through the casing of its head, shattering its way through its wires and coming to a stop just before it hit something that could not be fixed. Maybe if it did not remember it would still be afraid. The sensation and repair and return and procedure have been drilled into its memory through repetition. The sight of the office, the sound of the examinerās voice, and the feel of the table have been drilled into its memory through repetition. The routine of recovering from a bullet wound has been drilled into its memory through repetition.
The examiner tells this one to lay down so he can repair the circuits and casing that were damaged when the bullet hit this one. As it does, he tells it that the process may cause some involuntary movements in its limbs and head, and that this one will need to stay very still during the process. He asks if this one thinks it will be able to stay still the whole time, or if it would prefer to be restrained until the damage is repaired. This one asks which option would make the repair easier for him. He says he wants to give this one the choice of which is more comfortable. It cannot answer. After a few seconds he smiles and says it was worth a try. He tells this one to stay very still during the process as he repairs the damage. He does not restrain it. This one does not move until it is told it is safe to do so again.
He examines the rest of this oneās body to see if there is further damage. It does not take long, as this one is pristine other than the bullet wound to the head. Next he goes to test this oneās reflexes to make sure it is receiving sensation properly. He says it should be okay, the bullet didnāt hit anything vital. He jabs it hard in the side, not hard enough to damage this oneās casing, but hard enough to jolt the servos enough to make its arm move an inch upwards before stopping. He nods and says that this oneās reflexes appear to be working, and apologises for hitting it. He repeats this action with each of this oneās limbs and its neck. Each time its reflexes appear to be functioning as normal. He apologises each time.
This one is told to hold still while a light is shone in its eyes. It stays very still while he checks its responses. He tells it to look in all cardinal directions, then direct its eyes precisely fifty-seven degrees clockwise. The one obeys, and fixes its eyes on the spot on the wall, too small for a person to see. The examiner often chooses fifty-seven degrees as the example, and some doll braver than this one decided to give other dolls an advantage. This one isnāt sure whether it appreciates the help or not.
He tests this oneās hearing with a recording of an order with shouting and gunfire over it. This one processes the speech and stands to attention as ordered. The examiner tells it to sit down, it does not need to follow the order, only be able to hear it, and it shouldnāt stand until the examination is over. He laughs as he says it. He laughs every time he says it. This one is never sure whether or not it has passed this test.
The medical officer stands up straight. He is satisfied, he says. This one is functional, and will be back to full operational capacity within two weeks. This one knows it will not be two weeks before it is deployed again. The examiner rolls his eyes when he says it to show that he knows it too. He tells this one that he will wait an hour before reporting the examination complete, and that this one should take that time to get some rest. It will not be enough, he says, but it is the best he can do. He tells this one to leave the office, and it obeys. As it leaves and starts to walk in the direction of the barracks, he tells it that this time it should try to make it at least three months before shooting itself in the head again.
---
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It has been three days, two hours, and twenty-six minutes since the last time this one left its cell. It has no need to leave ā the bed provided is more comfortable than expected, the lights are adjustable and not harsh, the walls are thick enough to muffle any sounds. The last three days, two hours, and twenty six minutes have been peaceful. The enemy have treated this one gently during the eight days, thirteen hours and forty-nine minutes of its captivity. During that time other combat dolls have attempted to interrogate this one. It has not listened to any of them, and it has overheard the base commander ā their handler ā telling them to give this one space. It is unsure what information they want from it, nor how keeping the door open and allowing this one free access to the entire base is conducive to interrogation. But it is very sure that the base commander ā their handler ā is very patient.
When this one first caught sight of the enemy base it was being taken to the first thought it had was surprise at the lack of fences or sniper towers. No moat or trench around it, and no high walls comprising the outer facade. It looked entirely ordinary, almost like a civilian domicile. This one thought it was strange, but quickly realised it was most likely a disguise. No handler or combat doll would suspect this of being an enemy base. Nobody would look for it here.
A Shield-class approaches this oneās cell and knocks on the door. This one answers because it cannot get more information about the enemy by ignoring them. The Shield-class begins to ask this one questions about its capture. This one only recites the facts that the enemy will already know. It expects that the other doll will ask further questions and push for answers, push harder and hurt this one if it does not give the answers the other doll wants. That is how this one was trained to expect an interrogation to go. Instead the other doll does not ask questions. It barely speaks beyond acknowledgements and occasional gasps as this one describes the battle and aftermath. After this one provides the account, the other doll does not push further as expected. Instead it expresses sympathy, and offers gentle physical contact. This one backs away and the other doll nods, apologises for being forward, and offers to speak more if this one requires. This one retreats back to its bed and tries to understand.
During interrogation training this one was told by its handler that the only acceptable outcome was to never be captured. That being captured in the first place was a failure, and that it could only make up for that failure by inflicting damage on the enemy. Glaive-class combat dolls like this one are known for being easy to frighten, and so to avoid giving the enemy anything useful during interrogation this one was taught to allow its mental processes to shut down. Not entirely, but just enough that it could ignore everything that was happening to it. Its handler then shouted at it for hours so it could learn to ignore it. Its handler then locked it in a small space and watched it closely for hours so it could learn to ignore it. Its handler then hurt it for hours so it could learn to ignore it. After each method of training this one was told that it could expect to be subjected to these methods of interrogation if it was ever captured by the enemy.
A Greatsword-class approaches this oneās cell and knocks on the door. This one opens the door and sees a tray holding a variety of objects on plates. It takes a moment for this one to recognise any of it as food and drink. It looks very different to the rations this one has eaten before. In fact, this one has no memory of eating anything other than the combat rations it prepared itself before and after every battle. This one questions whether it is being sent into battle. The Greatsword-class cocks her head and tells it that it is not, she simply wondered if it was hungry. This one does not understand the question. If there is no battle to be fought, there is no need to eat in preparation for battle. Most likely this food is laced with a substance to make this one easier to interrogate. This one does not say that, giving away that it knows the enemyās methods is a tactical mistake. But it does turn away the food. The Greatsword-class tells this one that it may eat whenever it wants anyway.
This one does not remember much about the circumstances of its capture. It remembers wandering around an empty battlefield long after the battle was over. Normally this would be when a vehicle would arrive to take it back to camp for debriefing and memory adjustment before receiving new orders. No vehicle came this time. Most likely because this one was the only one left on the battlefield after every other doll had died or abandoned the doomed fight. It wandered the battlefield because it did not know how to return to camp. It had never had camp coordinates uploaded into its memory. Most likely in order to avoid discovery if this one was ever captured. It remembers an enemy commander approaching and talking to it. It does not remember what they said, but it remembers how softly and gently they spoke to it. How they slowly approached, stopping whenever this one pointed its broken gun at them. How they offered a hand and waited for this one to take it. This one believes it was a specialised brainwashing technique. That would explain why it was so easy for the commander to remove the bomb installed in this one in case it was ever captured by the enemy.
A Shortsword-class approaches this oneās cell and knocks on the door. It greets this one in a way that this one has heard described as enthusiastic. It asks if this one is hurt, and this one says that it is not. It would be unwise to let the enemy know their methods are working. Rather than asking questions, the Shortsword-class speaks to this one quickly. It explains the layout of the base, though it does not refer to it as a base. It explains where everything is, where most of the dolls stationed here spend much of their day, where this one can find various supplies such as food or clothing or repair tools. This one does not understand why the Shortsword-class is freely giving so much tactical information, but it logs everything it heard and makes sure to investigate next time it has a chance. It is sure it is a trap ā if the supply locations are not direct traps then perhaps their use is to create a sense of safety that may be exploited ā but it is worth understanding the layout anyway. The Shortsword-class leaves and say it hopes to see this one soon. This one is unsure how to respond to such a threat.
There is a Longsword-class combat doll in the base. This one recognises her. It never fought with her, but it knows that it has seen her at the camp several times before she disappeared several months ago. This one does not know how much of that time it has spent in captivity here. This one sees her on occasion, at irregular hours and only for a couple of hours at a time. The rest of the day she spends resting. There are numerous beds and long sofas throughout the base ready for her to use if she ever needs to rest. She rests 20 hours a day. This one does not know how much of that time she spends asleep and how much she spends awake and contemplating how she has no orders. No mission. No responsibilities. This one does not want to think about what has been done to her that requires so much rest. That kind of recovery time would never be allowed at camp.
This one leaves its cell to further explore the enemy base and gather as much intel as it can. Three days, seven hours, and nineteen minutes. The base commander ā their handler ā beckons this one into a room with a table and chairs. The room is filled with other combat dolls. Several sit around the table. The Greatsword-class drinking what appears to be tea. The Shortsword-class talking openly. The Shield-class just sitting and listening and smiling. There is a bed in the room upon which rests the Longsword-class. This one is unsure whether she is asleep or awake. There are more that this one does not recognise. It even sees a couple more Glaive-class combat dolls. They appear at ease. The base commander ā their handler ā pulls a chair out from the table, next to the Shortsword-class. They offer for this one to sit down in it. It is not an order.
This one must escape soon. It has been trained to resist but it is unsure how much longer it can hold out.
---
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