This is the home of five mecha pilots forced to share a single mecha.
Generally speaking we tend to get along, but who knows... We use this blog as a record of our missions.
I don't like making reports. I don't like when I have to pilot the K1T-4. I don't like reports because they're bothersome, but as for the K1T-4
There's nothing wrong with him, really, I guess... I did help pick out his upgrades and designs... It's just... Sensory, I suppose.
I can't handle sharing him for long periods of time because everything is so overwhelming, having someone else's mind against my own when the feeling of someone else's skin is already so disgusting...
It can be okay when I'm the only one, I guess. But I need peace and quiet to really focus...
So, why is it that whenever everyone else is overwhelmed and overstimulated I find myself in the cradle?
Vyx got into an altercation with someone who had arrived on base a day earlier than expected and didn't respect the rules, demanding they be broken for him. When Gin stepped in to say he needed to drop the attitude or leave... Well, it really got out of hand.
And in the end it was me, not Gin, who handled the resolution to the situation by passing the situation along to the MP's. Afterwards, for a bit, Ian and I copiloted...
It wasn't bad, actually. He's calm enough that his presence wasn't overstimulating, which seems to irritate Raine a bit. Not Ian himself, but that I didn't mind it.
Gin even played CO for a while.
Mind you, right now Gin and Ian are pilot and copilot, but I actually didn't hate the few hours I got to pilot again...
Report Summary: There was a conflict shortly before 0100 that was resolved by Gin and I. Mission was otherwise successful.
Look... We're not gonna talk about how much time has passed since the last report. Things have just been... Ugh. That's the best way I can describe it. Ugh.
Patrol has been frustrating, for some reason we keep passing around colds to each other, and the appointment to get our medication fixed didn't exactly go according to plan. We have another thirty-one days before they're willing to talk to us again about adjusting the antidepressants we've been put on, which sucks ass, because finding the energy and motivation to do anything when everything feels pointless is just...
Anyway, so that's what's been up, I guess.
Report Summary: Life kinda sucks, but we keep on keeping on.
Pilot(s): RN-9 and EN-1
Copilot(s): None
Coordinating Officer(s): VX-13
As far as actual reporting there isn't much to really to say right now. The last patrol went well enough, and this one seems to be shaping up to be business as usual as well. Gin discovered that the medication we're on has some pretty bad known interactions, so they're going to be contacting the doctors as soon as they're able to discuss changes, but that's a mission for another day.
As for why I'm the one writing this report and not someone else? I wanted to talk about my idea for earning more credits to put towards the maintenance fees we've been accumulating. It's been a while, but I've always liked drawing, and I have several coloured pencils stashed away.
It wouldn't be digital art the way some prefer, but it would be art, so I'm hoping that maybe I could offer up doodles in exchange for credits?
I'm going to try drawing the other pilots and maybe even the K1T-4 as well as examples, so hopefully I can post that up soon...
That said, if there are any changes then one of us will make a report.
Report Summary: Everything is quiet and patrol is going well.
enough about weird mech yuri this,neural connections that,handlers that.
cease with your AC-6 centric mechposting. i want to hear WHY you fight.....i want to hear about fucking impenetrable cockpits with enough buttons to entertain a toddler for a thousand years.
Trying to start some toxic yuri shit with this mech pilot, but she's well adjusted and happily married. I called her my loyal dog and she filed an HR report fuuuuuuuuck
Almost all pilots fall apart in training. It's part of the objective of it, to smash their egos into beautiful, useless shards before melting them down into something new and useful. All those pesky pre-training memories, their original personality, beaten down and flattened into a fresh slate to make a new killing machine out of in the simulators.
Sometimes though, a pilot doesn't break that way. It's rare, but there are a handful who take to the training well, who need less beating to follow orders, who come out with their mind intact.
She's one of them. The only one in her squad - in fact, in the whole base. The others cling to their handler or mech like a lost child when they're off the battlefield, all quaking limbs and puppy dog eyes, desperately waiting for the moment they can plug back in for their next hit of combat stims and dopamine rewards. Not her though.
When she gets back to base, after recovering from the neural de-linking, she climbs out of the cockpit under her own power. She doesn't need someone else to clean her, and she's never found trying to sneak into her handler's bed at night. In briefings, she not only pays attention, she asks for clarification on mission-critical details.
And her handler hates it all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A lone handler stands over the holo-map table, surrounded by her analysis support crew and a dozen telemetry feeds. Despite the chaos of the battlefield, the control room is largely quiet, the muffled sounds of combat feeds playing over one-ear headsets and quiet humming from the plethora of embedded computers punctuated by callouts and the handler's enthusiastic praise toward her squad.
On the table, a barrage of translucent blue missiles silently splash against an enemy bunker, and the handler contacts the pilot that fired them to shoot off a quick "Good girl" as the mech delivers a dopamine reward, her way of reinforcing the reward mechanism to make controlling the pilots outside their mechs easier.
She spots another unit in the squad bisecting an enemy mech with its pulse blade and radios to it, the words "Well done, hound," quietly slipping from her lips.
"Ma'am, I told you to stop calling me that. I have a name and a pilot ID number that both work perfectly fine for professional communications," comes an exasperated response over the line, causing the handler's face to pull back into a sneer.
"Pilot, I will call you whatever I deem appropriate. As we've been over, you belong to the military, and therefore me, as your CO, for the duration of your service."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just drop the sexual harassment and I'll stop talking back." The mech's miniature counterpart spins around and gouges out the core module of a rushing enemy unit, as if to punctuate its pilot's demand.
Members of the support crew glance at the handler and each other as she mutes her side of the radio again, her knuckles white around the hand microphone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear, your little 'outburst' earlier may not have been the brightest idea. Maintenance crew reports that your handler is waiting at our bay in the hangar.
The pilot groans at that report from her mech. Looking through its eyes as they approach base, she contemplates staying out longer just to avoid the coming confrontation.
That would simply make things worse. I recommend taking a head-on approach. If you would like, I can keep the core module sealed until you have recovered from disconnecting.
"Urgh, it's still weird that you can do that over the neural link. That would be good though, I don't want to deal with her while I'm still nauseous." The pilot pauses for a moment. "Do you think she figured out we asked for the reward systems to be tweaked down?"
Querying maintenance crew... no.
She lets out a relieved breath and begins maneuvering into the hangar. Once the mech is situated in the docking clamps, the cables wired into her back pop out with a series of clicks, sensory input and systems feedback from the mech going dizzyingly black with each thump of the thick wire bundles landing on the floor of the cockpit.
From outside comes the faint hydraulic hissing of the embarkment bridge extending, followed shortly by a series of clanging sounds. The pilots wobblily raises her head to look into the mech's sole internal camera, and its soothing voice comes over the wireless link alongside a low-quality video feed showing their handler on the bridge, flanked by a pair of technicians.
Take your time, love. I'll keep her out for now.
The pilot faintly registers the sound of the mech's voice coming through its external speakers, saying something about locked joints and pistons, as she clumsily shakes her limbs to get used to moving them again and tries to clear the spinning in her head from the disconnect.
Eventually, she pulls herself up from the pilot's cradle and the cockpit door thumps and whirs open to reveal her handler's disgruntled face, which quickly morphs into a facsimile of gentleness. Underneath it, the furrowed brow and half-smile betray her real feelings.
"Welcome back, my loyal dog," she says, reaching down to try to lift the pilot from the cockpit.
Ew. "Is that all you're here to say? I can walk on my own, so move. Or is this some kind of power play, trying to block me in here until I let you play out your weird petplay fantasy on me?"
The handler recoils. "You should be grateful that I'm even here to greet you!" she shrieks. "Not every dog has a handler so caring!"
The pilot steps up onto the bridge and roughly shoves her aside, striding across the bridge followed by a hail of obscenities. She breaks into a run just outside the hanger door, rushing out a checkpoint into the cool outside air of the base's grounds. In a minute she's past another checkpoint, into the on-base housing, slowing to a walk as she heads for the multiple-occupancy units.
Most of the pilots are assigned to special bunks near the hangar, but she has a special exception. It's a nice spot on base to live, since most of the units belong to non-combat personnel with families, and they're by and large nice neighbors.
Even if I can't read your thoughts over the wireless link, I can still see where you are, dear. You're supposed to be going for a debriefing.
"They can debrief me tomorrow, and you know pilots are only supposed to get those as a formality. They're more than happy to cancel them for the others."
The others can't respond to a yes or no question. You can.
"Tomorrow. I'm not dealing with my handler again today."
She jogs up the few stairs in front of one of the houses, pulls a key from a chain around her neck, and opens the door. Inside, the lights are already on. She walks past the living room into the kitchen and calls out a gentle "I'm home!" to the person asleep at the table, before laying a hand on her shoulder and gently shaking her awake.
She groggily opens her eyes and looks up, then all traces of exhaustion disappears as she bolts up excitedly and wraps her arms around the pilot.
"You're back!" she exclaims, holding her tight. "I didn't think you'd be done tonight!"
"Ah. Op went quick this time. It's good to be back, babe," the pilot replies, returning the hug and basking in the smell of her strawberry shampoo.
"Eugh. You smell like sweat and oil. Go take a shower, I'll throw something together for you to eat. If you don't want anything in particular I'm just going to heat up leftovers."
"Leftovers sound really good right now honestly. You're the best, babe." The pilot releases her wife and heads off to to the bathroom, but pauses for a moment. She checks the indicator on her implants to make sure her mech will hear her, then takes a deep breath.
"I'm going to talk to the base HR office tomorrow, see if they can do something about my handler."
"Stop. Just, stop okay? She's gone. She's not here. And she's never coming back, okay? Just.... Fuck. Just go to your fucking kennel."
"Command accepted." The lieutenants disgusted face left my vision as I turned away, and left her almost empty room. Bodies passed me by. Some turned away from me, some reached out a hand before someone else pulled it away. None touched me. They couldn't.
I killed the last person who dared.
I stood in front of my pod. I couldn't connect to it without her. I waited. She'd come soon. I stared at it.
"Do you need help, pilot?" A voice called from behind me. I turned, and looked at their shoulder. Engineer. Third rank. I didn't look at their face.
"Request denied. Unclear intent. Please state intentions."
"... Do you need help connecting to your pod, miss?"
"DENIED. ADDRESS PILOT BY RANK." It can't call me miss, only she can call me miss, I am not miss, I am pilot, pilot pilot, leave me alone alone alone.
"S-sorry..." It left.
I stared at my pod. She'd be here soon. She'd tuck me in. The lights dimmed. The attack on the base must've needed a long meeting to sort things out. She had to be busy. She was busy.
My legs trembled, aching.
I fell before the lights rose again. I sat on the floor, and stared at my pod. She was coming. She always put me to sleep before going to bed.
Did she forget? She must be tired. Too many meetings. They always put her in too many meetings. Always worked her too hard. Too many logistics she had to handle for me.
"Pilot. Stand up." A voice called.
"Orders received. Confirmed." I stood up, and looked at their shoulder. A commander. I saluted. I didn't look them in the face. I can't look them in the face.
"How long since you slept?"
"Current operation is at fifty two hours, thirty nine minutes. Requesting handler."
"Request denied." I flinched. What? "You're being reassigned. Lay down in your pod."
"Orders received...." I couldn't move, couldn't say the word. "Denied..." I whispered. "Requesting handler!"
"Request denied." The voice sighed, deeply, frustrated. "You need to sleep, pilot. You are... not functioning properly."
"Pilot is operating above mission parameters!"
"And what parameters are those, pilot?"
"... Survive."
"You cannot complete that mission if you do not sleep."
"Confirmed. Request Handler to complete mission."
"... oh, Kit...." I flinched on hearing my name. No. No. No.
"PILOT. I AM-"
"Be quiet, pilot." My mouth snapped shut. I felt my tears slide off my face, hitting the metal plate beneath my feet. "I know you've been told. I know how you reacted. I know you killed the doctor. None of that is your fault. It's time for you to go to sleep."
"... Order denied. Please. It.... I... I can't..."
"Your handler is dead, Pilot." The words hit me like an AP round. A wail grew in the air. "You're being reassigned to a new handler. Out of the system. You... you're being retired."
"No! No! No! Requesting handler! Stop hiding her from it!" I couldn't move. My legs wouldn't move. I needed to kill this thing in front of me. A spy, a fake, an enemy wearing the uniform of the commander, he's not real, he's not real. I couldn't move my legs.
"You held her hand, Pilot. Who gave you your last order?"
"Handler!"
"When was it received in this operation cycle?"
"Order received at hour 8 and seventeen minutes!"
"That was two days ago. What was that order?"
"... Survive...."
"What were the exact words, Pilot?"
".... It can't.... it can't...."
"Repeat them to me."
"Confidential information! Cleara-"
"Override! Security clearance level 8, two nine alpha three seven Kilo Indiana Tango. Repeat your last orders to me!"
Her words flowed out of my mouth, repeated like a mantra in my head for so long they made up more of me than I did. "You have to survive, baby. Don't let me die in vain, you have to live! Get off me, doc, let me say goodbye. Let me tell her to live. Listen to me, Kit. My little Kit. Oh, I love you. You did such a good job for me today. You saved a lot of people, okay? But now you have to think about you. You have to survive. Priority one, okay? Confirm for me, baby. Authorization two nine alpha three S-seven.... Kilo. Indiana.... tang- tango. Good..... -rl"
"Priority one, Pilot. What is your next step in this mission? Your handler is not available."
GN-7 put down the report they had been reading and lifted their goggles back up, sliding them into their usual place on the top of their head.
They needed to be able to run a hand over their face. They needed to have a moment to process what they had just read. They needed to have a moment to just breathe.
It was unusually silent in the hanger, the K1T-4 was still out on patrol with RN-9 at his controls, and over comms GN-7 could hear him laughing as he chattered with his copilot, EN-1. They tended to get along fairly well, though they were a combination that tended to have interesting results... Neither were critical thinkers, after all, and when together both boys had a bad habit of just goofing off and reacting to situations without a single thought.
GN-7 smiled slightly at the sound of the two. Despite how often they reprimanded the others, they did still care about them all, so hearing the boys sound so happy despite everything...
"Goddammit all." They finally said, voice flat and angry. "Goddammit all to hell and back."
The report they had checked over had been one about the various medications the five of them were on, and it wasn't something GN-7 would normally bother themself with, since there was the general assumption that the doctors knew best, but... EN-1 had pointed out that the way he was feeling today was similar to how he felt when switching between certain medications previously.
Serotonin syndrome could be dangerous, and it made no sense why he should be feeling that way... At least, it made no sense until GN-7 looked at the medications they were on.
The medicine they had given him for the resulting migraine of piloting the K1T-4 when the mecha was having feedback issues was known to have bad reactions with most antidepressants. It was known to cause serotonin syndrome. The doctor must have known that when prescribing the medication...
"We are just parts to them, I guess..." They muttered, pushing the papers away and across the desk.
Without a proper Handler it had been GN-7's job to speak up for themself and the other pilots, and now their gut was churning as several puzzle pieces began to slot into place in their mind.
The day of the accident, when the K1T-4 had suddenly fallen down the cliffside with EN-1 inside, they had all thought it had been a result of EN-1 not being fully awake and the onboard AI being offline after a forced reboot due to the ongoing feedback issues. EN-1 had felt awful about it all, sure it was all his fault, and even if most of them didn't blame him (VX-13 was very vocal about it absolutely being his fault), he had continued to blame himself.
But, of course, EN-1 had taken the medication prior to boarding the K1T-4 due to the migraine he had gotten as a result of the feedback, and with the symptoms of serotonin syndrome affecting him at the time...
"And they would have known... the bastards. They let us think it was a problem with him... Poor Ian..." GN-7 sighed.
Well, there was really only one thing to do now, and that was to take the evidence to the doctors and demand a change in medication. If they would listen to a pilot. It was doubtful, but someone had to look out for the pilots, and no one else was going to. The five of them had learned a long time ago that they were the only ones looking out for each other.
Delta sat in darkness, priming her weapons, running her usual pre-engagement diagnostics. She felt the dropship touch down, and watched as the doors opened.
“Be a good hound, break these rebels, and I'll make sure you get a good meal tonight,” Orwell, her handler, said as Delta urged her mech forward. She didn't respond. He wouldn't have cared what she said if she had.
She felt the light blind her as she exited the dropship, looking over the battlefield. This was going to be easy. They'd hardly needed her, the rebels were already backed into a corner, pushed into a bunker. They'd called her in to ensure her newest attachments worked correctly. Flamethrowers, to help break the rebel infantry lines in future battles. Her mission was simple, approach the bunker, cook everyone inside, make sure the Imperial infantry stayed safe, and go home.
She walked through the Imperial line, moving into the no man's land that they'd let the rebels think existed. Strange. No panic shots? No rebels fleeing as they realized what was coming? She let a couple jets of flame loose to make sure they understood what they were in for. She felt better when they understood, when they saw their deaths coming, knowing nothing they did would stop it. She heard the dings of small arms fire on her mech's plating, and felt her mech reward her with a shot of adrenaline. She growled as the thrill hit her, and started moving faster. Maybe if she ran at them they'd panic more.
She felt one of her legs slip as something beneath it gave way. What was that? She saw something rise up to her chest, and managed to turn just as the mine exploded, knocking her to her side. Her visuals fuzzed with the impact. Maybe this was gonna be fun after all. She started to bring her mech to it’s feet, but her visuals were still on the fritz, not displaying any of the usual HUD, only the view of her external cams.
“Orwell, my visuals are fucked, I'm not getting any combat data,” She called, trying not let her panic show on comms. She only heard static in response. “Orwell!” She called, letting her panic slip. This wasn't supposed to be a stressful job.
“This is Nightingale, Orwell handed you off to me for tech support,” a young woman's voice responded. As Delta got to her feet, her HUD flickered back into place. Nightingale came through again, “Okay darling, let's see how you handle back on your feet.” Darling? Orwell never called her darling. It was kinda nice. Nightingale also had a very casual air about her. Delta liked that. Orwell was too stuffy.
She checked her display. So much red. Where did that come from? As if Nightingale heard her thoughts, she explained “The rebels set an ambush. They figured the mine would take you down, and that the infantry would be crushed from both sides. You blacked out for a bit, it seems we got you back too late for the infantry. Let's make these fuckers pay eh?” Wait. She hadn't blacked out, had she? How would she know if she had? She felt her adrenaline pump again. “Snap out of it darling, we need to finish this and get you home before they bring in more guns.”
Delta rushed forward. These fuckers WERE going to pay! She zoomed her optics in. She loved seeing the faces on the infantry when she came at them. She drank in their cries as she burned them alive. They were hardly fighting back. How had the Imperial infantry fallen to such a disorganized force?
Wait. What was that?
“- your side.”
“Pilot's gone fucking insane.”
“Please, stop, why are you-”
Did these guys get bad intel? Delta felt the glorious stab of her pump again as she started cackling. The idiots couldn't even brief their soldiers right and they were supposed to “topple the Empire” or something? They deserved to burn. In fact, they deserved more. Orwell would be mad but he could deal. This mission had gone way off the rails and he wasn't here right now anyway.
Delta opened her missile racks and let loose, watching with glee as it crushed the retreat. There was only one left, just as she'd wanted. She walked up, and drank his terror in as she lifted her foot, feeling her leg shift just as it had earlier. The grease monkeys would clean that off, probably.
“All done,” she called to her comms.
“Perfect timing, dropship should arrive any moment,” Nightingale called back, “Spectacular work out there Delta.”
Delta felt her pump again, but… that wasn't adrenaline. She beamed. Orwell only gave her endorphins if she did “exceptionally well.” She boarded the dropship, got into her bay, and powered down. Orwell was definitely going to feed her well tonight. She watched as her hatch opened, and saw a young woman waiting for her.
“Hi Delta, nice to meet you in person, I'm Nightingale,” the woman said as she stepped forward. The techs cut Delta loose, letting her drop into the woman's waiting arms. Orwell never met her in the bay. Hell, Orwell hardly ever showed his face. “We worked so well together, I talked Orwell into transferring you to my unit, so we'll be working together from now on, isn't that great?”
Delta smiled as the woman held her. Then she saw it. Under her Imperial officer's uniform, she had another set of clothes, with a pin displaying the broken tower of the rebellion. She tensed, and then, she thought about how her life with the Empire had been. How Orwell had treated her. Then, she relaxed into Nightingale's arms. She didn't care if they'd tricked her. She was happy here in that embrace.
Shit man, this mech war is fucked. I just saw a doll shoulder its rifle and say "reality warp: black hole star" or some similar shit, and every mech around it cratered, radiated a ring of pure energy, and disappeared. The camera didn't even go onto it, that's how common shit like this is. My ass is firing anti-personnel rounds and buckshot. I think I just heard "nanomachines: skewer" two groups over. I gotta get the fuck outta here.
