...the hell for 'mech pilots, once. You get there walking down the lonely, beaten dirt trail, in the fog-shrouded forest, approaching a lookout post where the sentry sits. Uniform of an army you have never seen, viscera spilling out where his flesh rots through. He waves you in, tells you which hangar you have a slot at.
Just past the entrance is the first hangar, Limbo. For those who never did more than they needed to, never looked out for anyone except themselves, never repaid good with bad- or, in fact, with anything at all. They sit there in rows after rows, silent in their niches while technicians without eyes clamber over them. Sometimes, they say, the repairs are completed, and they wave the pilot on out of the hangar, back up the trail.
To the left is Lust, for the magpies, the looters. The ones who craved the metal that had been flesh and bone to others. There they are torn from their cockpits, hearts plucked out by those eyeless technicians, replaced with minute metal homonculi: piloted themselves in murderous clashes until flesh-shreds are all that remain.
To the right is Gluttony, for the over-prepared, the hoarders, the ammunition hogs. Their 'mechs stand beneath a flimsy stone ridge as an endless artillery barrage rains down on them. The terror of the instant death- in spite of all their armor, in spite of all they took for themselves -is constant.
When you walk past Lust you go to Greed, for the spray-and-prayers, for the overkillers sowing cities with missiles and stray shots. Here wait the fallen angels, colossal, purely alien 'mechs of ever-sweltering black metal, and the pilots toil heaving batteries and missiles and armor panels, all of crushing weight, to repair them. Some lie fallen under the burdens they were lugging, never able to arise.
When you walk past Gluttony you go to Wrath, for the cockpit stompers, the ones who shoot down ejecting enemies. They are chained in their seats, ejects disabled, glass barred over, and their reactors cook them in their own can as they howl and sizzle. They go deaf from the radios that share every damned soul's screams with every other.
When you walk past Limbo you go to Heresy, for the metal-breakers, the engine strainers, the ones who slaved their 'mechs to the extreme. Here they lie on tables, those eyeless technicians disassembling them, removing piece by piece and replacing it with metal, from digits to nerves to brain, until all that remains is mute, unmoving alloy.
When you walk past Heresy you go to Fraud, for the abusers of the flag of truce, the false colors or feigned surrenders. Although you can never walk past Fraud; their 'mechs stagger forwards, down that misty dirt road, until metal rusts, until servos give out, until limbs drop off, until they finally collapse, staring, stagnant, mindless, imprisoned in their cockpit, watching the rest of the damned keep heaving themselves on.
No person ever goes to the last hangar. The last hangar is not for the pilots, you see. The last hangar is for Treason. The frozen control systems. The faulty radar that failed to pick up an incoming strike. The eject that refused to work when it was most needed. The last hangar- or so I am told -is where metal goes to pay for its sins, and it is no sight for mortal eyes.
snowghoul
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
