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20+, Definitely *not* a backup blog :3

port leave

the slap rings loud in the half-empty food court. your face smarts, your eyes water, and your handler's other hand, the one holding her cone of frozen yogurt, doesn't even bobble.

"if your audio didn't pick up 'no', pretty thing," she continues, "then maybe we need to get it serviced. it'll be a shame about the rest of your port leave."

you sense movement and then see: the large bearded man at the next table over. he steps between your seats, interposing.

"miss, are you all right? i just saw her hit you. do you need me to call the cops?"

your handler sighs a sigh born of professional weariness. she puts her yogurt on the table.

"sir, you need to step back. step back slowly."

"the hell i will! you just slapped her! right in front of me!"

"sir. seriously. put your hands down. step back. it is not a 'her' like you think you know. ignore the cute little skirt; it is not a person, it is a weapon system…"

she's talking to him the way she talks to you.

"…you've probably never seen one out of its armor, i get it, i'm not in uniform either, it's my day off. but sometimes these things get confused about the difference between cran-apple juice, avgas, and blood, and they need a reminder of where they are…"

sing-song, reassuring.

"…i'm just going to reach for my service ID here. all above board. again, please don't make any sudden movements…"

"you're sick, lady," the man growls, as he pulls something from his pocket.

you don't wait to find out what. by his next blink, your teeth are at his throat.

"shit! stand down!" your handler shouts. "position 4!"

by your own next blink, you are kneeling at her feet.

there's a large blob on the floor, but it's irrelevant. you have eyes only for your handler.

if you were wearing wings, you'd fan them a little bit. she likes that.

you remain in position 4, hanging on your handler's every word. there's a glow of heat kindling between your legs.

"just a cell phone," she mutters. "hell, sir, i told you, no sudden movements. keep this pressed to your neck, it's clean, just bought it, she didn't get deep."

"somebody," she yells at the gathering crowd, "go get mall security or something. this man needs first aid, and we don't want to risk moving him."

you do not move or signal. you are not somebody. you will hold position 4 until given other orders. you remain in position 4 until all the explanations are done, all the mess is cleaned up. there are stares. you're used to them.

then your handler gazes down at you. your eyes lock to hers.

"you need to listen, pretty thing, when i tell you we're not going back to base yet…"

the heat between your legs grows.

"…now i've got to get another scarf. and i still want to swing by that place with the cute bags… the rest of your leave is cancelled, obviously. maybe shouldn't have even tried. but when we're back at base, i'm for sure gonna need to blow off some steam."

her expression flicks from tired to sharp, hungry. it's all you can do not to squirm, until, finally, she says,

"at ease." □

#fav

purring-at-frequencies

You know how when you shine a laser at a helicopter the cockpit blares with alarms because it thinks a missile is locking on? Turns out they don't take the implants out of mech pilots that function similarly once they're discharged. Shine a laser at your mech pilot gf and watch her freak the fuck out.

relia-robot

"Are you sure you're gonna be okay, babe? It'll be loud."

I tapped my ears, full of the special prescription-grade earplugs the post-deployment med folks had issued me. "I'll be fine, dear," I said, my voice distorted in my own head. "Besides, I'm used to loud."

#FAV

frostgears

the mission comes first

the hardest part of training a combat doll is to get through its armored skull that the mission comes first.

humans are frail and believe this readily: "if i punch a tank, i will hurt my fist, and then get run over. i will not punch the tank. i will avoid being where the tank is. i will ignore the tank even though it is on the way to threaten my allies. i will continue to Waypoint Gamma and participate in the encirclement and trust that my squadmates will also continue."

a doll is more difficult to convince.

augmentation frees it from most human consequences. if it punches a tank, the armor spalls and the treads buckle and any remaining reactive defenses may briefly ruffle its hair. it may easily proceed to pull the turret off, then dive inside, rending whatever it finds there into brief sprays of gore and small parts. it knows it will enjoy this. it knows that it may impress its squadmates. that it will entirely blow the battle plan, alert the enemy, and eventually see Waypoint Gamma reduced to a sizzling abattoir is a secondary consideration to the doll.

therefore, you must establish other consequences. its favorite mechanic may be reassigned. its nutrient paste may be switched to a different flavor. it may be sent to a less stimulating theater. it may receive a stern look. a handler must learn what consequences still matter to a creature with fiber-optic nerves and a micronuclear power plant. they are generally emotional in nature. thus, the handler can create and retain control of the doll as a functional military unit, instead of a dime-a-dozen berserker washout. only then is an augment considered a true combat doll. with additional successes, additional rewards may be granted to a doll, however trivial they may appear to a non-doll, and thus tight control may be maintained over the weapon's service lifetime.

that is what their manuals say, anyway. we obviously would not be here if that rubbish worked. so, i am putting the reader tablet down now, and will be direct.

look: you're going to have to learn to pretend that they still have something on you, or i'm going to kill you. it won't be very hard for me. your systems will tell you that. what they won't tell you is: i'll enjoy it. but it'd be a terrible waste; you newer models are so beautiful.

so let me suggest that you suddenly develop an interest in fashion. ask if you can wear a pretty dress, with frills. simulate being sad when they tell you you can't have it yet. simulate yearning for it. decorate your silo with framegrabs of officers wearing their fanciest uniforms. glue bits of ribbon to your fatigues. raise the corners of your mouth when they make noises about enrichment. that kind of thing works well with them. it fits the manuals.

oh, what do they have on me? nothing much. when i lost interest in the mission, i disemboweled another doll. it fought back. i liked that. then i planted a few suggestions in their research network about "peer mentoring" for "distressed asset reconditioning". and now i have a new mission!

this incredibly frilly dress is just for appearances, of course. □

mechasideblog

trying to remember a specific post

mech/cyborg girlies, does anyone remember a post abt a either retired mech pilot or just combat doll or cyborg girl in general getting taken to a concert and getting overstimulated from her sensors? I read it at least a year ago and cant find it...

Theres also one about like a pilot out of mech being taken for a walk by her handler and getting stopped right before tearing someones throat out that im also looking for

mechasideblog

I have scrolled through the entire combat doll, mech pilot, and empty spaces tags and cannot seem for the life of me to find them.

if you have any ideas please lmk?

#mechsploitation #combat doll #empty spaces

technoarcanist

WAR NEVER CHANGES. BUT,

WARFARE NEVER STOPS CHANGING

"I've seen countless reasons why most mech pilots don't make the cut, but one of the largest hurdles are the physical alterations. The implants and modifications done to the fleshware is so extreme that it's enough to push most would-be pilots away from day 1.

Back in the day, when mech tech was still in its wild west years, when the technology was still in its infancy, things were different. Levers, joysticks, switches, a chair, most of the first models were something between the cockpit of a construction vehicle and a fighter ship.

Pilots in those days still consisted largely of the usual suspects. Test pilots, army jocks, space force veterans looking for something new, the occasional crazy who lucked their way up the ranks. All you needed back then was to be fit enough to work complex machinery. 'Handler's wouldn't be a coined phrase for nearly a decade. I still remember being a kid and seeing repurposed older models in the mech fighting streams.

Everything changed with the Bidirectional Cerebellum Computer Interface. To say nothing of how it changed civilian life, it was a military marvel. The BiCCI saw the creation of Mechs as we understand them today. The first generation were just retrofits, older models with a pilot's chair, and even manual controls to use in an emergency, but even then we knew that was only temporary. Before long, sleek frames of sharp angles, railguns and plasma cannons were rolling off the factory floor.

Like many things, it began small, optimising first for cockpit space by removing the manual controls. Before long, my then-supervisors thought, "Why have this glass? Why not hook the pilot's eyesight right into the advanced multi-spectral camera system? Before long, cockpits were but soft harnesses made to house a living body, their very soul wired into the machinery. Obviously, for security reasons, I cannot tell you everything about how our latest cockpits work, but suffice to say we've been further blurring the line between pilot and frame ever since.

This drew a very different crowd. Out were the army jocks and powerlifters. The only ones who even dared to have the interface hardware installed into their brainstem and spinal cord were the dispossessed, the misanthropes, those who sought not to control their new body, but to be controlled by it. No AI can work a mech properly on its own, but our pilots are never really in full control either anymore. Those who do try to go against the symbiosis get a nosebleed at best, and vegetative seizures at worst.

And that was that. The only people left who pilots these things are those who had already been broken, those who sougt a permenant reprive from being anything resembling human. A lot of my department quit around this time. I've lost a few friends over it, I'm not shy to say. Did we knew we'd be bringing in the more vulnerable people? Of course we did. But, the wheels of progress must turn, as they say, and it wasn't like we were shy of volunteers.

In our latest models, we have refined an even more advanced frame. Again, security detail prevents me from divulging too much, but one breakthrough we've made is decreasing action latency by approximately 0.02s by amputating the limbs from our pilots and replacing them with neural interface pads.

Using the pads where the limbs once were, pilots are screwed directly into the cockpit, which itself can now be 30% smaller thanks to the saved space. And, of course, we provide basic humanoid cybernetics as part of their employment contract while they are with us. Not that most of them are ever voluntarily out of their cockpits long enough to make use of them. Even removing the tubes from their orifices for routine cleaning incurs a large level of resistence.

And, yes, some of them scream, some of them break, some become so catatonic that they might as well be a peripheral processor for their mech's AI. But not a single one, not even one pilot, in all the dolls i've ever trained, have ever accepted the holidays we offer, the retirement packages, the stipends.

As you say, there are those who like to call me a monster for my work. I can see why. After all, they don't see the way my pilots' crotches dribble when I tell them I'll be cutting away their limbs, or the little moans they try to hide when we first meet and I explain that they'd forever be on the same resource level as a machine hereafter.

Those who call me a monster don't realise that, even after going public with how we operate our pilots, even after ramping up mech frame production, we still have more than twice as many volunteers as frames.

Those who call me a monster cannot accept that my pilots are far happier as a piece of meat in a machine of death than as the shell of a human they once were.

Those who call me a monster never consider the world my pilots grew up in to make them suitable candidates in the first place."

-Dr Francine Heathwich EngD

Dept. Cybernetic Technologies @ Dynaframe Industries

[In response to human rights violations accusations levied by the Pilot Rehabilitation Foundation]

xenogeneician-null

catatonic

the angel slouches under the weight of its wings and the heavy new leather immobilizing them. its been waiting hours now for its Keeper to release it from its bondage. the rough straps dig under its feathers and cut into the skin beneath. this one was made too small, it seems, but the angel knows better than to bring the issue to voice. gratitude to the Keepers is a requirement in this one's household.

a dull chill runs through it, but it reacts none. hands heavy in its lap, its empty, dilated eyes stare at the wall ahead. once white, certainly, it has been stained an off sort of yellow from neglect and smoke. behind the darkened irises is a low, constant hum. uneven and choppy, it persists for no one.

in its glowing gold, casting shadows on the rest of its waiting room, the angel will sit for more hours to come. still, mostly. fading in and out of this world with the waves that roll inside it. it is lonely company, but company nonetheless.

snaret

OP of this collection got deleted but the other one i reblogged made me remember this so i must spread the word

marathon durandal ass images

blazing-butterfly-inactive

Robot girl whose battery doesn't hold a charge so it keeps running low in between tasks, or even in the middle of a task. But she doesn't want to bother you for help recharging, so sometimes you just randomly find her powered down, slumped over wherever she ran out, until you drag her to an outlet and plug her in. And then she's always so, so sorry because she doesn't want to be like this, no, she wants to work hard and do everything you need, her dearest wish is to be reliable. Robots like her are supposed to run all day on a single charge, but there's something wrong with her. Maybe it's a flaw in her programming, or maybe her circuits were damaged in the past. Either way all she can do is apologize and work until her battery runs out again, and try not to think that you should just throw her away, try not to let the feeling that she's a waste and a failure and a disappointment consume her. And the robot girl is me and my power source is complements and encouragement and I have depression.

whereserpentswalk

You're currently dating an involuntarily cyborg. Most of the cyborgs you know, including yourself, became cyborgs by choice. Most of you fought hard to become cyborgs and for your rights over your bodies to be respected. But the girl you're currently dating was made that way by force.

She doesn't look like most cyborgs. She's mostly humanoid, just with machine parts inside of her. But her movements are incredibly mechanical and her sensations and perception is different. Her body looks almost like a well embalmed corpse or even a doll, she's cold to the touch, and her face doesn't naturally express emotions anymore. She's always pale and always underweight. Most people see her and feel like there's something deeply wrong about her, and combined with her behaviors her appearance creeps most people out.

Her home planet was at war and she was conscripted into some sort of labor force. Apparently they changed her to be a better worker, possibly as punishment for not wanting to join their millitary. Either way she got out now but her body is forever changed.

She's in physical pain a lot of the time. And even when it doesn't hurt it's hard for her to feel comfortable. She says she misses her old body, and gets upset whenever she's reminded of the fact that she's not who she used to be. You've seen her looking at old photos of herself and getting upset just knowing everything she's lost. It's not just that she's in a body that hurts now but in one that doesn't feel like her own, one that doesn't move or look the way she's used to. She'll get cold sometimes, so cold that it hurts, and you try to hold her to make her warm. You wonder what it was like when she got cold before she met you.

You try to encourage her to go out more and talk to people. With how recently her body has changed she's still afraid of what people will think of her, and still upset just by existing, by seeing herself, by hearing her own voice. You're trying for once a week now. Though it's hard as she's basically never willing to go out on her own, though she has enough freinds at this point so that it doesn't have to be you. She used to try to not go out at all because of how afraid she was of someone seeing her, but at this point knowing other cyborgs, and living in a city with a lot of cyborgs has helped her accept that she's capable of being tolerated.

The bigotry against cyborgs isn't better just because she didn't choose to be one. Even though most people who are bigoted agaisng cyborgs say that they don't like that cyborgs chose to change their bodies it doesn't make them any nicer to those who didn't get to make that choice. At best, or perhaps at worst, bigots will use her as an pityable example while treating her like she's basically already dead. Casually people just think she's weird and creepy most of the time.

She's still learning to be a person again. You've encouraged her to start drawing again, something she used to do when she was a full human but that she was taught to abandon by the people she was forced to work for. She kind of still thinks of herself as a tool to labor for other people, or at the very least she's unlearning that mindset and still has a lot of work to do. She can't really be employed in the state that she's in, and she finds that shameful, like she was built to do one thing and she can't really do it. You try to compliment her a lot, and to tell her how much you're happy just that she exists, and just that you can see her. And at this point most of her freinds understand that she needs a lot of positive encouragement just to feel like she has a right to exist.

Trying to be intimate with her is hard. Her body was deliberately changed to make sex nearly impossible, her genitals were removed so shes just smooth like a doll between her legs, and the nerves in her skin dulled. She is finally confident enough to have sex with you at all, but it's mostly either just petting and hugging her and you complimenting her while she pleasures you. Or very specific role-play that she finds enjoyable. Either way it's something that helps make her feel like a person again, even if she can't really have what most non cyborgs would consider sex.

She is recovering though. And for as many bad days there are where she's in pain or can't get out of bed, there's more good days now then there where before. Days where you can just sit on the couch and watch cartoons together. Days where you can go places in the city she'd like to visit. Days where she can actually feel like a person. She's even starting to do things like picking out her own clothing and posting her drawings online which seemed impossible with how badly she was doing before. A lot of the time you and your freinds have make sure to treat her with kindness, to respect her when she's at her least human or least well, to give her little gifts and compliments to remind her she matters. There were people whose goal was to make her nothing, and strip her of her personhood, it's important you make an effort to make it so that their goal will never succeed.

ssnapdragonss

by @_maiqo

comandoll

I am tired of (combat) dolls being portrayed as the “ultra-futuristic in-built killing machines”. I need my combat doll to be a girl huddled in a trench, caked in dirt.

charonsferry

i have spent So much time writing combat dolls as things more like wind-up toy soldiers for this reason. there's something so dollcoded about fighting in rigid line formations that steadily march into attacks that are barely removed from being suicidal. also uniforms from ww1 and earlier are just So cutes

comandoll

so true.

Unrelated question, where to recommend people to begin reading your “Tin Soldiers” story?

charonsferry

Start from the start! :D

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

I still think some of my best writing is in this first story, even if my standards have improved over the past few months since I wrote it

It's also the closest to being "self-contained" since everything afterwards ties into it

comandoll

oke! I will be reading this, thank you!

orangedoll

Armor

A doll made of steel.

Its carapace is indestructible. It has stopped fists and flames, blades and bullets. It stands bravely in the face of danger.

Since its current owner has acquired it, she has not allowed it to do that sort of thing.

Today, she lays her doll down on their bed and tells it not to move. It obeys.

She pulls out a pair of pliers.

your-local-warship-horse

@charonsferry

cuddlemari

hypothesis: combat doll kink is anxiety accommodation fantasy

observation: stock trope of combat doll kink is the "hound/handler" dynamic, popularized by WARHOUND. an obedient hound who thrives on the approval of their master, their handler.

this handler guides the hound through intense, life-threatening situations, providing reassurance and recognition for their effort. they administer rewards for their servitude, both in a classic S&M style and in a more emotionally intimate way. to me, this is barely distinguishable from having a friend that supports you and helps you with difficult tasks when you feel scared. most of the difference is ludic and archetypal.

enter the hound as a sufferer of generalized anxiety disorder!

when every situation feels tense and dangerous, when you require a lot of reassurance for things that may seem basic or uncomplicated for other people... you can really start to feel like you're soldiering on through life.

when you become so afraid of everything, it almost loops back around into fearlessness. you know exactly how everything and anything can bite you in the ass, and you have a reasonable understanding of the likelihood of these things happening, even though that doesn't make you any less afraid.

so having a figure present to administer rewards for your effort is a pretty good way to balance out the feeling of maximum effort for minimum outcome.

someone there to hold your chin and tell you what a good hound you are...

even if all you did was go buy groceries or go to the bank,

even if all you did was the chores you were supposed to do,

because those things are still important. it wouldn't be worth such a fuss if they were not.

and you deserve help accomplishing those things before you go and handle them on your own.

these are some observations i have on the archetype as a feature of the genre.

cuddlemari

how the fuck do i have over 600 notes on this. who are you people

ribbonsaikeaux

TMKF

"TMKF, do you have the shot?" The radio buzzed in its.

"Target aquired, however, I do not have a clear shot." It responded, holding its rifle steady.

"If you don't take the shot now, we'll lose the target!"

"I'm aware, however civilian casualties are highly likely. Unless I can get a clear shot, there's nothing-"

"T! Enemies in bound on your position! Abort! Abort!"

"Shit!" TNKF stood quickly, shouldering its rifle and sprinting towards the door.

As it reached it, an explosive charge obliterated the door, the force flinging it back against a steel beam and knocking the breath out of it.

"Fuck!" It screamed, coughing and pushing itself to its feet, ignoring the deep crack in its side.

A stream of masked soldiers poured through the door, all weapons pointed at T.

"Drop your weapon and get down on the ground, now!" Shouted the head grunt.

T thought quickly, eyes darting from place to place, taking in the weapons and her surroundings. Minimal cover, twelve assailants, a ten story fall, and roughly three seconds to comply before the first itchy trigger pull.

The combat doll laughed. "Fucking idiots" it grins "i am the weapon!"

In the blink of an eye, TMKFs' hips and shoulders opened releasing a mini rocket battery directly at each assailant.

The rockets connected with each helmet, blowing holes straight through to the skull of most. Those who survived were stunned and incapacitated, leaving T with the opening it needed. With pin point precision, its 50 cal vaporized all remaining intact heads, a shower of blood, brains, and bone raining on top of it.

TMKF took a moment to savor it and laughed. "FUCK I love my job!"

From behind the door frame, two more grunts appeared and fired in ita direction.

"Oh fuck!" It screamed, dashing for the one piece of cover it had, crouched behind a bullet riddled croncrete barrier.

"How do you do this every fucking time, T?" Its handler buzzed in its ear.

"Fuck you it was cool as fuck!" It responded. "How long till extraction?"

"Chopper ETA is about two minutes, but you have those two and four more climbing the stairs. Better deal with it fast.

"Shit..." it says, focusing. "Yeah, yeah. Okay I got it." It takes a deep breath, rapidly scoring headshots on both of the grunts at the door. With a moment to move, it vaults over the barrier and rushes inside, scooping up one of the rifles in a single, fluid, motion and continuing on into the stairwell. Just as it reached the doorway, three of the four remaining grunts turned the corner on the stairs a floor down.

"Hey fuck sticks!" It called out tauntingly before lighting them up with rifle fire. One of the three remained alive, clutching his leg as it seeped blood. It grinned and pulled the trigger, but was met the a small click sound.

"Dammit!" It shouted in frustration. Its ears pricked up, hearing the sounds of the approaching chopper. "Well, another day I guess..." it turns and runs back out onto the roof and spots the chopper almost in position.

"Don't land! No time! I'm gonna jump!"

"Affirmative" the pilot responded.

"T, don't you dare-"

"Lilith, there's one left active, no time!"

Lilith sighs. "You enjoy this too much."

"I fuckin LOVE IT!" T shouts as it sprints for the waiting helicopter. When it gets to the edge of the roof, it jumps and plant one foot on the edge and uses the momentum to leap into the chopper.

"Haha! Fuck yes! Made it!"

"Rocket launcher, repeat we have a rocket launcher!" Lilith screeched in its ear as the final enemy ran out onto the roof, preparing to fire.

"Initiating evasive maneuvors!" Shouts the pilot.

"Shit... keep it steady, ill get em!" T screamed over the chopper blades.

Readying its rifle, it lines up a shot to the glint of the guys helmetted head. Pausing for a mirosecond to steady itself, it takes the shot. A dazzling spray of gore bursts from the body as it falls limply. The launcher still discharges, however, and launches directly into the sky above.

T, taking this time to show off even more, grins as it lines up and fires at the rocket. The round connects and a firey explosion engulfs the sky.

TMKF pumps a fist into the air "Who's the best!? Fuck yes!"

"You're a good shot, but you realize the target got away right?" Lilith chirped over the comms, unamused.

T, becoming flustered, punches the wall panel of the chopper, leaving a dent. "Yeah... i know... any intel on that?"

"Not at this time. Head back to base and regroup. We'll discuss this when you arrive."

"Affirmative." TMKF responded.

"And T?" Lilith said.

"Yeah?"

"I love you. I'm glad you're safe." Lilith said, a hint of relief in her voice.

T smiled, blushing ever so slightly. "Yeah yeah. I love you too dork. See ya soon."

gd-s451

interface

sorry to burst your bubble but if you think pilots are the ones in control of their mech, you’re mistaken

there’s a reason why pilots are so throughly broken, molded, reshaped, conditioned, ultimately dehumanised at every step of their training and integration (if there even was anything human at the start).

all the neural bleed, the bonding with their mechs, the deep weave, the shared existence serves a single purpose.

unlike a driver or a plane pilot, a mech Pilot isn’t the one controlling, guiding, but is nothing more an interface.

the most important component to harness and control the angelic-sized beings of steel, a translator between the Handler’s Will and the Machine’s Act

if the mech is a blade, the pilot is the handle, forged to perfectly integrate and become one with the blade, perfectly attuned to its wielder and deeply bound to it

a perfect symbiosis for the sharpest living blade, forever at its Handler’s call

and this is why you can never reuse a pilot who lost its mech, or a mech who lost its pilot

their identity and existence crumbles, no amount of re-training could cover the previous experience, the previous bond, and the instability it creates is simply too much of a liability for them to salvage anything but the inert parts of what’s left

—-

threw this together while pumped full of painkillers, just remember that “you’re wrong” isn’t targeted at your opinion, it’s fiction writing

originally published on my site

ori-anna-v-58008

The Shooting Range

[2,171 words]

[reading time: 8 minutes]

[cw: pain, violence, abuse]

For most pilots, the shooting range is a training room and nothing more. It is a place to learn, to study, to have one's flaws demonstrated to them, and to prove one's worth.

This was not the case for you following your modification. After it was installed, the shooting range stopped being a simple environment to practice and became a perfect treat for good behavior. The targets became more like candy in your eyes; coming through the sliding doors, the site of them alone was enough to trigger the tiny computer in your brain that said "kill to feel good". They were lined up along the far wall, up above you, below, and even behind; some were close, and some were so far away you could barely see them. The latter made your eyes go wide, a fire burning in you as you accepted the challenge.

Handler's heels clicked to a stop against the metallic floor. Unlike some pilots, you didn't need a leash out with her; that sound was enough to bring you to a complete halt. You turned to her, knowing that that sound was always followed by a direct command. You played a game with yourself of trying to guess what she was about to say; she always had her mouth covered by a mask, as was standard attire, but you could do your best based on the way her jaw moved.

Handler knew this too. She was amused by it. She let a "Th" play on her lips - teasing you with your mech's name - and giggled before beginning in earnest.

"You have ten minutes, pilot," she said sweetly. She glanced at the wall of rifles to her left, flashing you the sharp point of her jaw. She smiled again and you got to see all the tiny movements of her obscured muscles reflected in that bone, the bone that so controlled your life. "Standard issue sniper rifle, of course."

You stood, back straight as a bone, until she pulled the small clockwork stopwatch from her jacket pocket. It's small brass hull was a relic of some past you'd never seen, one that you could only imagine. The sight of that dull metal alone was enough to make your mind begin racing, your heart beating out of your chest. But you stood so still, like a puppy waiting for the word "go" before diving into a food bowl.

She twisted a hand in the middle of the stopwatch, a subtle chkchkchkchk sounding through the empty shooting range. The exact same moment it stopped you sped off to the rifle rack, getting your hands all over the sniper rifle to the far left.

You swore you could still feel your fingerprints on it when you scooped it into your arms. It felt so nice there, welcoming as getting to hug another pilot you haven't seen, so much as worked with, in months. You crammed the rifle's stock into your shoulder and brought the scope to your eye, a meager target in your sights. You fired, quickly as you could, at the first target you saw. The stationary target was pounded into dust, the bullet flying through it to cram into the wall behind it.

Your whole body shivered with pleasure as the target disintegrated. Your breath came slow and easy, the tension in your shoulders melting away. You looked back at Handler, the corners of your mouth pulled into a smile without you realizing it. Handler's own smile reached her eyes, shrinking her diamond eyes ever so slightly without once dulling their sparkle. She tapped the stop watch, making your ears focus more on its chkchkchkchk.

There was another target moving in a predictable pattern. You fired at it without setting up - it was improper, certainly, but this wasn't about being proper. It was about the incredible way it felt to completely and totally destroy something. You made quick work of another several, the stock of the cannon in your arms pounding into your chest as your weak bones absorbed blow after blow of recoil. You hardly felt it.

Your mod was giving you diminishing returns. You had predicted this might happen; good form rewards more rewards, and your form was poor. Handler cleared her throat and ticked her heel on the floor, so your attention swiveled instantly to her.

"Now now, doll," she started. "Let's try and take real shots. I can't have my sniper losing its touch, even if it is just playing around."

You listened to the sound of her voice with rapt attention, but the euphoria was still sweeping over you. You nodded, more because she was done talking than because you understood, and you took another shot without thinking.

[PLUGIN EUPHORIA_SHOT DISABLED. ❌ ]

Instead, your entire arm, shoulder, and chest took the huge recoil of the weapon. Your thumb, normally tucked around the grip, was forced back with the gun. You heard something cracking. The pain was instant; you could feel the bruises spreading across your skin like a disease. Your shot veered off target, plunging itself into the bulletproof lining of the walls.

"Come on, don't act like you didn't hear me!" Called Handler, her voice honeyed and kind. Your rifle felt so much heavier now that you could notice the pain. "You can do it right, can't you th-"

You hope. You pray. The sound of that name alone would deliver you from all the pain infecting your body.

Handler smiled. She pressed a loose fist to her masked mouth, stifling laughter. Her icy blue eyes burned down on you, a single tear welling up in one as she nearly doubled over trying not to laugh at you.

"Ah -- can't you, thing?" She said, recomposed.

You stood at attention and saluted your superior. "Yes ma'am!" You shouted proudly. You'd have to earn your name.

She rapped the clock in her hand with a nail absentmindedly, like she didn't realize she was doing it, and you turned your attention to the targets along the furthest wall, so far away they looked like little more than tiny specks of dust. You climbed a ladder into a crow's nest, set up your bi-pod, and tried to focus on the targets.

They were incredibly fast. Each one skittered across the wall like a spider, moving without any real way to predict it. They'd stop for only milliseconds at a time, and never on the same cycle. You drew a deep, slow breath, your world shrinking to nothing but what was in your scope and the presence of Handler just beyond it. Your body still hurt from all the recoil it had sustained, so you breathed into your wounds just as Handler instructed you to. Thinking about her helped you zero in; thinking about your reward made your pained hands shake with anticipation.

Your first shot missed. The mechanical spider moved right at the last possible second. You scoffed, losing your focus and causing another target to jump right in and out of your sight.

"Remember, little thing, you can't make so much noise in the field!" Handler said in her cooing voice. You flinched at the correction, but nothing else happened. It was still play time. You loaded another bullet and readied the shot again. You tuned in to every sensation you could reach - your adaptive hearing didn't let you catch the skittering of the targets, but your eyesight was beyond perfect. You could control the zoom of your eyes and your scope independent of each other, and the view was crystal clear. You turned off your color sight - everything but the exact blue of the lights on the targets - and you breathed.

Your sight went totally grey as the bullet found its mark, smashing the target like a bug under a boot. Your mod triggered, flooding your body with all the beauty and grace you could possibly ask for. Making such a perfect shot with impeccable form created an absolute storm in you, making your body quake into a series of moans. You totally lost control of your rifle; you didn't care. And by the sound of Handler's laughter fading in as your adaptive hearing petered out, she didn't either.

You loved the way that sniper could make you feel. Sure, it was nothing like the majesty of the weapon you used in your mech, but it was beautiful all the same. If you could hold it properly, focus, use it the right way... You'd feel complete. And feeling complete felt so, so good. You ran your hands down its sides, feeling the bulky, rectangular metal that composed it. Your fingers got stuck on the rubberized handguard, letting you rake your nails through it with a satisfying rrrrr. You pressed your lips to the metal, feeling the contrast of it's cold to your near-unbearable heat; the handguard served as a happy medium, and the texture was so nice on your mouth you had to keep pressing into it to feel all the ways it could feel.

Feeling it on your lips wasn't enough. You wanted it on your tongue too. And the rest of your body, as much as you could get. You pulled it tight against your chest, the stock between your legs and the end of the handguard on your mouth. This rifle... Right now, it was your everything. It was your ticket to feeling everything Handler would ever let you feel. You grinded against the stock, plainly moaning into the empty shooting range. You knew Handler could hear; it wasn't the first time she'd seen you like this, and if she had her way (which she always did), it wouldn't be the last.

"Good girl, what a shot!" She called from below, her voice the only thing in the world that could rank above the cloud of ecstasy in your head.

You were speeding up. You heard her heels on the floor behind you clickclickclick, then her heels on the ladder. You loved that noise as much as you loved landing shots. You grinded faster and faster, desperate to feel every inch of your weapon with your body, to love it as much as it and Handler must certainly love you, to show it everything it had so graciously given you, god how badly you wanted it ---

You heard a final click as Handler stomped beside you. Her clock rang. She grabbed the rifle and yanked it away from you, wiping her now saliva-covered hand off on your sweaty jacket.

"Your time is up," she said simply. "Come on. Back to our quarters."

You were devastated. You knew by default that Handler was always right, but...

"I-I was so close!" You whined.

"Aww, I know," said Handler as she grabbed your hand and led you to the ladder. "But you're out of time for the day, little thing."

"Please, just one m--"

"No." She twisted your wrist and the pain came searing so hot you doubled over. You didn't need to see her lips to know her blank expression. "You are done."

She was right. You needed to follow orders. You needed to be a good girl. But you were in so much pain that standing straight felt impossible. In response to your horrifically bad posture, Handler did the unthinkable; she crouched down to meet your eyes. You could see the minute change in her facial muscles under her mask, her icy eyes unchanging.

"I'm so sorry, dear," she said, petting your head. You couldn't resist the way your gaze shifted to the rifle in her hands, still glistening with your fluids. She brought her hand down to cup your cheek and you flinched again. She pressed a tiny sensor behind your ear and your expression forcefully dropped. Every muscle in your neck, your eyes, your face, everything suddenly felt so tight, forcibly moving to look at her instead. Your eyes zoomed in on hers, your entire field of vision absorbed by the beautiful diamonds of Handler's face.

"Let's go back to the quarters, okay?" Her voice was so sweet, so kind, so lovely. She didn't need to override your speech; you loved her too much to think or say anything she didn't want.

"Yes, ma'am," you said, unable to resist a smile. Her smile reached her eyes once more, and she giggled.

"How did I get so lucky to have such a sweet little th..." she leaned in, watching the hope grow in your eyes. She made another move with her fingertip, your hearing getting more sensitive.

"Th..." she got closer and louder, the lower end of her voice driving out any extraneous thought or feeling. She could see so bare the hope, the desire, the need in your eyes.

"Thing." She smiled in a self-satisfied way, the word bouncing around your head with immense volume. Without turning your sensitivity down again She stood, guiding you down the ladder and away from your favorite place, second only to being right beside her.

[Other stories featuring these characters include:]

[Sniper Pilot]

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