you don't have to tell your handler that you're coming in messy after a bad mission. she's tied into flight ops. she knows.
she's waiting by the flight line before the grease monkeys have all your armor off, with a lubed glove on one hand and two fat purple pills in the other.
"ssshhh, pretty thing," she says. "you did your best out there. now open," she forces the pills to your mouth. "good girl. where's that water bottle… swallow. good."
her hand is already working between your legs, reinforcing her praise. they always detach the armor there first.
the pills help. the pills leave you feeling floaty, detached, enough to ignore what they've done to you to make the armor work. you probably can't climax without them by now, not that your handler would ever let you find out.
a few moments later, you spatter your built-up tension and guilt across the deck. with a sigh, you sink to your still-armored knees. your reflex weapons disarm, automatics finally allowed to take over from your own hair-trigger awareness. they're safe now. you're safe.
the grease monkeys are also safe, emerging from behind blast shields that would not have stopped any but the lightest of your armaments. more for psychological safety, really.
"the fuck do you think, wrenchie?"
"i think you couldn't pay me enough to do your job."
"i don't do it for the pay," you hear your handler say, as your eyelids sink towards closed. "i do it because that thing you're all scared of? she's all mine. and every landing, i get to remind myself, and all of you, and most importantly, her." □
