#mech pilot stuff

[femmefirmware]

Enough deeply complex Handler hound relationships (for now)

Show me a Handler desperately trying to tame a mutt and failing embarrassingly

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[feralmechpilot]

Just mentally heard missile lock alerts while in the shower and almost fell over trying to dodge

[femmefirmware]

Something Different

A/N: Something that I made in a moment of passion, enjoy~!

***********

It was sweaty. It was always sweaty after a sortie. Sitting alongside a fusion reactor tends to have the effect of making a human body sweat.

It had a routine. Wake up, get in a 'mech, sync up, deploy, kill, come back if still alive, get out, and fall into whatever passes for a bed. It liked that. Familiarity was good.

Today was different. It didn't like different. After docking and powering down her 'mech, it was told wait by an Ops Officer to wait at the unloading bay. It didn't like it, and simply decided to brush off an order and dis- It waited at the bay, arms behind it, as instructed by Her.

"Echo Romeo India November", spoke a harsh, overworked voice. It turned its head to the source of the words, more instinctual than not. Said source was a soldier in heavy-duty armour. A grunt. Low rank, definitely gofer of the bay. It looked at his armour, picking up weak points, just like it has been taught to.

"The Lady wishes to meet you, in her office. You know where it is. Walk, mutt." This was different. Usually, She met it in the Kennel. It liked this different. It turned on its heel and stepped to. The grunt followed, his rifle held steady and true, lined up to its head, should it ever dare consider stepping in a way it shouldn't. It didn't care. It was a weapon, it needed to be kept under guard. That's what Handler said.

Its legs nearly gave out, thinking about Her. Handler. It wanted to run, to drop to all fours, and sprint. It mustn't. Patience was rewarded by Handler. Always. Handler's office was a bit aways from the hanger, but it walked with glee, step after step. The rifle never wavered.

Eventually, the grunt and it reached a long hallway. Handler's Hallway. Her office sat at the end. She was so close. It was so excited to see Handler. But it must follow the rules She gave it. Eyes to the ground. Never speak first. Never say anything but "Thank you, Handler" and "Yes, Handler". Never think. Ne-

Its ears picked up the sound of the power doors beeping before opening. It was at the door. Handler was seated in front. It knew, it didn't look. Never be on two feet unless told to. It took a step and dropped to its knees, hands used to keep steady, eyes affixed to the ground.

It could hear Handler's boots clicking against the tiled floor. It whimpered. It was happy, it was excited, Handler was coming closer.

Handler's boots stopped right in front of it. This was…different. It was supposed to walk to Handler. Did it displease Handler? Was it a ba- A hand, covered in black latex, lowered itself into its vision. Fingers, slipping through the gaps between the steel of the muzzle it was to wear.

"To keep you safe, my dear. You, and others." It liked safe, and it trusted Handler. Handler could never be wrong. So it wore its muzzle as ordered.

The fingers curled, holding the muzzle in their grip. They pulled, and it looked up. It was a wordless order, and Handler is never wrong. So it must obey, Handler knows best after all. It whimpered more now, happy at having the great privilege of looking at Handler's face.

Handler was beautiful, Handler was perfect, Handler was without flaw. Raven hair, falling at the sides. Black eyes meeting its own. A black mask, hiding Her features. Yet, it could see, in those eyes, Handler's eyes, a glint of joy. Of…pride? It made Handler proud? Handler was proud?

It squirmed on the floor, a blissful smile crossing its face as it looked up at Handler. It made Handler proud. It is a good hound. It is happy.

Handler let go, making it whine, but it didn't dare look away. Handler's visage was a rare blessing, and Handler had joy. Handler looked away, to the grunt. It whined, it couldn't help it, but it waited. Handler raised Her hand, a dismissive wave directed to the grunt. He responded with a nod, stepping back and letting the power doors close, before scuttling away, seemingly…afraid?

That was silly, who could be afraid of Handler? Handler made it feel safe, gave it purpose. It loved Handler, how could anyone fear Handler? Handler simply needed to be obeyed, and it was very good at being obedient!

"My, you've been good, hound". It was! It nodded, giddy from the wonderful words Handler gave. It was happy it made Handler happy, a good weapon always makes its owner happy after all! Handler's voice was wonderful, deep, firm yet soft. It loved Handler's voice.

"I think you deserve a reward, hound." It did? It wasn't sure. It wasn't in its place to guess either. It simply gazed up at Handler, head tilted to the side, unsure, waiting, breath unsteady.

Handler raised Her hand, and gave an all too familiar command, wordless, yet deafening. It obeyed. On your back. It did so, back against the cold tiles, belly shown to Handler.

Handler raised her boot clad foot, pushing its legs to the side, coming to rest…between them… It IS being rewarded! It let out a huff, the divine sensation of Handler's boot pressing up against it, on its-

"You did well today, hound. So many kills, such a good murder dog~" It thought back to the sortie. Its mech rocking with every step, a feeling that made it feel powerful, useful, yet nowhere near as pleasurable as Handler's boot grinding away at it. It remembered….faces? Saying…something? A name? Calling for a fr- It blinked, and nothing but Handler's visage was present, nothing but the holy sensation of Handler's boot, drawing and pulling out a wet spot. Drawing and pulling out groans of bliss and pleasure from its lips.

"Hmm, you seem to be going a touch overboard, even with kill confirms. We'll need to teach you more restraint. Later." Handler pressed down harder, painfully harder. Motes of pain made their way along its body, biting down and releasing venom that simply brought more pleasure to bliss racked mind. It will improve anyway, it always will be its best form.

Time no longer seemed to flow, no. It simply meshed together, a blur mixed and ruined and stretched, painted over with strokes of pleasure and pain biting down, shaded with praise from Handler, and framed with notes from Handler on how it can be an even deadlier weapon to strike. The world ceased to be. It didn't care about the now, the future, the pa-

"Are you ready for me, hound?~" It nodded eagerly, Handler chose how long reward lasted, but it was so, so thankful for anything. It trusted Handler, it believed in Handler. Handler was everything.

It let go, breathing wild, gasping in air, shivering from waves of pleasure splashing and caressing over its eager, hungry body. "Now~", a word. Permission. Approval. Crescendo. That's all it needed, that's all it seeks, that's how it was trained.

It howled, pleasure peaking, skin burning like a flame, no different from how it pushed its reactors to the brink of melting down, all to please Her. To please… Handler. It reached that peak, riding it, howling, groaning, and whimpering as that addictive, wonderful high faded. Wetness, present in clothing and on the floor, and on Handler's boot.

Handler took a half step back, balancing that boot on its heel, wetness present against it, all from the hound. Handler merely snapped her fingers, and it leapt, eager and ready, tongue getting to work cleaning and polishing Handler's boot.

This was different. It usually doesn't like different. But it liked this.

[femmefirmware]

Mech pilot who hears howling when she tries to sleep.

Mech pilot who, for some reason, likes her meat blue rare.

Mech pilot who adapted her swords to be claws.

Mech pilot who hears a voice as her hands shake, a voice begging to be let out.

Is this something or nah?

[femmefirmware]

A Room

Yeah, we're starting this. First post weee ------------

Clean. Sterile. Smelling of disinfectants and iodine, one would simply assume this room to be a standard med bay cell, typically used for surgeries and emergency treatments. That is, until one takes a quick little look around the room.

A metal bed. Normal. A metal bed with shackles? Less so. A tray with various tubes with fluids, tools that should be in a shed, a vehicle battery that thought to be in a garage instead of a medbay. And of course, the main course, standing centered in the room. A pup, a hound yet to be cast into the mold, shackled to the bed. And a handler, hundreds of suns old yet not a day over thirty.

"You've potential, pup. But you're blunt, misshapen, too full of thought." She spoke in a calm, steady voice, like a professor giving a lecture. She had a commissar hat and a trench coat with blood red gloves. Easier to clean after the job, she believes. The pup, eager and awaiting, all tapered with fear of pain, naked as the hour it was born.

Handler is steady, practiced. This won't be her first, but it will be her favorite by far. "Your combat training is…immaculate. Your aim, steady as a yew tree. You duck, dodge and weave like it's a dance. You're a perfect hound in all ways but one, pup."

Handler takes a vial, filled with a translucent pink liquid, grinning to herself as she loads it into the autoinjector and aims it at the pup's neck. "You think, pup. When you should obey. You hesitate, when you should pull the trigger. You've proven yourself in the sims, but you're not ready for your own Mech like Sasha was." A click, a hiss, a whimper from the shackled down pup. Restraints so tight it could barely squirm. Titanium so it couldn't dream of breaking free, no matter what comes.

"All that should be in your pretty little head, is the echo of my words, pup. Your triggers will come soon enough, there is time. And then, my beauty, my love, you will be a Hound. Just like Sasha, just like my favorite." The warmth of the injected fluid spreads. The pup felt more awake, more aware. It could feel the air in the room move from the slow fans of the ventilation. Heightened senses, a clearer mind. It dreaded the tools, but welcomed what it represented. Houndhood, hero hood, just like her great grandmother, just like-

"Your hero, she went through this, and my god was she resilient. First time I had to take a moment to rest, and I hope you impress me just as much, pup. Serum 682 will make you aware in battle, in tune with your surroundings." The pup felt giddy. Its first taste of the combat stims. It's new, it's fresh, it's-

"Mixed with Serum 532, however, it will force you awake. A serum for awareness, a serum for wakefulness. Useful on their own. Mixed, nothing will make you pass out, nothing you won't feel." A click, a hum, a zap. A start and a sample of her first dish in this meal plan of final perfection. The pup's eyes widened. Its cheeks flushed with arousal in anticipation, its digits shivering from the cold and fear of pain.

"You'll feel everything, pup. Everything for as long as it takes to clear your mind of anything that isn't obedience, bloodlust, instinct-" She leans down, the last time she lowers herself for her soon-to-be Hound. "-And trusting love of me." Before she rises back up, above the little thing restrained down. The pup can't squirm, can't run, can't speak without permission.

Handler moves the tray to be behind the pup, denying it even the subtle pleasure of seeing what implement she will select before using, save for the one she held. A taser, military grade. Enough to kill someone who hasn't received the physical hardening a soldier or pup has. "I won't lie to my new pet, don't worry. This will hurt, and it will take as long as it has to, pup, however long that may be." A normal person would plead, beg, change their mind. The pup simply barked, just as it was trained. It'll be an easy guess that training won't hold when she starts, and it'll never break once she's done. '"Good pups only speak when permitted." her words rung like bells.'

Handler runs her gloved fingers through its hair, the steel tips of her training tool digging into the bare flesh of the pup. It opens it mou- "You are not permitted." She commands, her tone as it should be. The pup nods, and barks. It is ready, not that its opinion held any value anymore.

Loving eyes gazed at its love. Loving eyes gazed at its handler. Loving eyes….flashed white as the feeling of a million wasps stinging beneath its skin spread. The first bite, of training, obedience, and Houndhood.

[femmefirmware]

A Final Meal

CW: MedFet, depiction of surgery, Ego Death, Hound/Handler

The mess was empty, quiet except for the low hum of refrigeration and the faint clink of cutlery from the dish pit. She was waiting for me at our usual corner table, my mission manager, the woman who’d pulled me from basic training and told me I had “potential.”

In between the empty seat and herself, sat a tray that didn’t belong in a fleet mess hall. Steam curled up from a slab of real meat, seared dark at the edges, still glistening with juice. Beside it, buttered greens slick with oil. Mashed root vegetables, soft enough to sag into the plate, their crater filled with thick, pepper-flecked gravy. A sweating glass of pale fruit drink caught the dim light.

I slid into the seat, grinning despite myself. “What’s the occasion?”

Her smile was warm, yet practiced. “It’s your favorite, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I laughed, “but that doesn’t answer my question.”

She tilted her head, resting her chin on one hand. “Eat first. Then we’ll talk.”

I picked up the fork. The first cut into the meat released a wave of scent, rich, salty, smoky. That first bite was everything I remembered from the one time we’d had it before. The char was just bitter enough to balance out the fat as it melted in my mouth.

She watched me chew. Not impatient, rather just… attentive. When I swallowed, she said, “It’s your final meal, pup.”

I laughed again, a little tighter. “That’s a weird way to say ‘promotion.’”

Her smile didn’t change. “You’re not dying. But the person you are right now won’t be here tomorrow.”

The fork paused halfway back to my mouth. “…What do you mean?”

“You want to pilot the mech we’ve trained you for? Survive the G-forces? Hit acceleration vectors that would turn a normal human into paste?” She gestured at me, not unkindly, but with absolute certainty. “You can’t do that as you are.”

I set the fork down. The greens gleamed in the light, perfect little leaves shining in their oil. I took a bite just to have something in my mouth, to keep from answering.

Her voice was steady, like she was reciting a mission briefing. “Tomorrow morning, we open your skull in three places. Remove the centers that make you hesitate or second-guess orders. Replace the bone with composite, install the neural ports. That’s my leash. When I give a command, you’ll follow it without pause. You’ll feel it in your bones.”

I reached for the drink. Cold, tart-sweet, almost too sharp. It did nothing to wash away the lead weight in my chest.

“Then the spine. Synthetic from C3 down, reinforced to keep your vertebrae from shattering. We’ll strip your calves and thighs, rebuild them with fiber bundles rated for triple the force they can take now. Braced ribs, so your lungs stay intact. Heart pump assist. Lung baffles so they don’t rupture when you pull six Gs in a dive.”

The mashed roots were soft, buttery, but they stuck in my throat. I forced them down.

“Your eyes go next. Not because they’re faulty, oh no, you have beautiful eyes, pup, but because human ones can’t parse full-spectrum targeting data. You’ll get multi-spectrum optics, calibrated to link straight to your mech. Every arc, every opening, every enemy will be there.”

The food was cooling now, and every bite felt harder to take. Not because it wasn’t good, it was perfect, but because I could feel it becoming the last. The last taste, the last texture I’d ever register with my own nerves.

She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. Her voice softened, almost affectionate. “When it’s done, you’ll be a hound. My hound. Stronger, faster, harder than you’ve ever imagined. You’ll take the field when I say, bite when I say, heel when I say. And I will love you just as much after as I do now.”

The last bite sat alone on the plate.

I stared at it, my hand shaking around the fork. My stomach knotted, but my mouth watered anyway.

Her eyes didn’t leave mine. “Go on, pup. Seal your fate.”

I did. And when I swallowed, I knew I’d never taste anything like it again. Not because nothing would measure up, but because tomorrow, the person who could, would be gone.

------

The room was too cold for skin, but too hot for thought. Metal walls gleamed under surgical lights, their edges blurred by the thin haze of sterilizing vapor.

They strapped me in at the joints first, wrists, ankles, hips, then added the chest brace, locking it until my ribs felt caged. A half-dozen thin arms came down from the ceiling, hissing as they lowered. Their tips bristled with needles, drills, and surgical shears.

My mission manager was somewhere beyond the sterile glass, her silhouette leaning on the observation rail, still as stone.

A voice, neutral and synthetic, filled the space. “Sedation commencing.”

The first stab was in my spine. It felt like a deep, burning intrusion that made my toes twitch. Then came the heat flooding her neck, and her vision bloomed with pale, unnatural colors.

Scalpels whispered through skin at the temples. Bone saws hummed low, cutting channels into the skull’s side walls. Something warm trickled down past her ears before suction cleared it away.

A hiss. A click. A wet, dull pressure as metal anchors were screwed into the newly exposed bone, docking points for the neural cage that would cradle her brain and keep it from tearing under acceleration.

She could hear her own heartbeat echoing strangely now, like it had moved into her teeth.

Next came the chest. The braces were removed one by one, replaced by a skeletal exosheath bolted into her sternum. Carbon struts bit into her clavicles. Her ribs were widened, then reinforced with shock-absorbing gel packs between each, no space for fragility.

They broke her legs on purpose.

The sharp, cracking snaps were muffled under the sedation, but she still felt the deep, marrow-level vibration of it. The bones were reset at altered angles, reinforced with alloy rods that ran hip to ankle. All so the body wouldn’t liquefy when the mech's frame surged forward.

The worst was the eyes.

A steel spreader forced her lids apart until she felt them tear. The robotic arm's precision tools slid behind her white orbs, yanking them with a simple cut. Her vision, restored one socket at a time, quickly cycled through different color modes. Standard, ballistic targeting, a whole new layer of visions to behold.

Somewhere beyond the haze, she heard her voice through the intercom. “Breathe, girl. This is the part where you stop being prey.”

The sedation finally pulled her under.

------

When she woke, the straps were gone. Her jaw was muzzled in carbon steel, her limbs heavier, her spine humming with power. She didn’t feel like she was lying down, she felt coiled, ready to launch.

The first breath came with a faint growl she didn’t recognize.

"Beautiful," the voice came, close. Too close.

Her eyes, no, her gaze, swiveled toward it, and there she was. A Handler. Her Handler. Leaning in, elbows on her knees, eyes drinking in every shiver, every twitch of this altered form. Her expression was not relief. Not concern. It was something deeper, hungrier. Pride that bordered on love.

"You hear that?" she murmured, as if speaking to herself. "First breath back in this world, and you growl. Not a word, not a question. Just… instinct."

The pilot tried to speak, but the shape of her mouth had changed, teeth catching on lips that didn’t fit the same. The sound that came out was raw, confused.

Handler approached, hand raising, meeting skin, fingertips tracing along the line of her jaw, pausing at a seam where surgical graft met living muscle. "They told me you’d be impressive. But this…" She leaned back just slightly, eyes gleaming in the low light. "This is perfection."

The pilot tried to shift upright, but restraints, soft and padded, kept her anchored. Not to prevent escape. Just enough to remind her of where she was.

"You’ll learn to stand again soon," Handler said gently. "But for now… just stay. Let me look at you. Let me see my hound."

The word landed like a drop of oil in water, dark, spreading, floating above any other sense. The pilot’s pulse thundered in her ears, but Handler only smiled wider.

------

A/N: MedFet pretty good, should try this.

[femmefirmware]

Lucky

I am truly lucky

Because I remember

The stars that night

The first time I met

The first partner I've had

I'm still lucky

For as I laying dying within you

I still see the stars

They're beautiful

Just as the day I met you

As shells land

As men fall

As I pass

I am truly lucky

For I am with you

And I die seeing the stars

As then

So now

[femmefirmware]

Specter Division - Sloth

The 3rd Expeditionary Assault Unit dropped into the ruins of Outpost IX, the broken city glowing faintly from the slag heat of yesterday’s bombardment. Five mechs. Standard sweep. Fast movers, heavy guns. A formality.

The enemy was already gone. Or so they thought.

“Area reads clear.” “Comms open. No jamming. Sensors stable.” “Where’s Specter Division?” “Irrelevant. Just a routine mop-up. Let’s get it done.”

They say time waits for no man. They’ve never met him.

The first mech in formation twitched. Anomalous input lag. Fine control began to shudder. The pilot tried to reset. Too late. The trap has been sprung. The targeting HUD blinked red, then blanked. Servos began to overcompensate. And the mech’s arm raised on its own.

It fired.

Not at any enemy. At its own squadmate.

“-You just shot me!” “No control! I’m locked out, my systems are freezing-"

The sin of Sloth is not idleness. It’s dominance through inaction.

Another stepped back to avoid friendly fire, and stepped on the second trap.

It didn’t explode. Instead, its limbs locked, targeting sensors began spooling through phantom targets. IFF readouts reversed. The pilot screamed as every warning light blinked to life, and their cooling system tried to purge nonexistent heat.

When others run, he stands. When they strike, he watches. Not because he cannot move, but because he doesn’t need to.

A third mech burst forward, trying to break line of sight. It tripped another logic bomb. Internal code rewritten. Power redistribution failed. Left leg refused to respond. The pilot ejected. They burned before the parachute deployed.

Up on the ridge, he lay in wait. Not hidden, just still. A black monument. Watching. Calculating. Already knowing how it would end.

A fourth pilot, desperate now, screamed into open comms:

“It’s not a sniper! This isn’t ballistics, I don't know what it is! Our systems are unraveling, who the hell is doing this?!”

The red visor gleamed. Slowly, deliberately, the machine rose to full height.

For your patience… your precision… your cold, calculating resolve… I present: Vigil.

One shot.

The fourth mech folded in half as its reactor went dark.

Sloth is the sin of kings. And kings do not rush.

The last pilot didn’t fight. She turned and ran, boosters blazing, smoke flooding behind her. But every system she used had already been touched. Her inputs began to delay. Her targeting reticle disappeared. Ammunition count dropped to zero.

She didn’t eject.

She just shut down.

Time crawls when you’re dying. He makes sure of that.

------

A/N: In my defence of absence, this was really hard to imagine up.