You wake up, for what is maybe the dozenth time, in the belly of your mech and the fried and raspy voice of your sole companion slides through the static like a serrated blade.
"Good morning, my darling instrument."
She pauses to pull from a cigarette, you know this from the lazy exhale that follows. It's easy to focus on little things like that when these moments are all you have. You wake up in the cockpit, bound to the pilot's chair, your hands shackled to the controls. You leave on sortie, carried to your destination by a pair of tooth-rattling, bone-shaking jet engines that roar with the fury of a storm, and crack like peals of thunder when you take off, and punch the accelleration. Those bursts of freedom are all you know, and in the quiet moments leading up, it's easy to think up questions.
Why am I here? Easy. To maim and kill and destroy. To fly circles around your quarry, playing with them until your jaws close around their vulnerable throats.
Where am I? Simple. The boot screen of your control terminal says Stearns Laboratories. That's not really a place, you think, but you aren't sure why you know that. You can't really think of a place outside this one, so you try not to think about it too much.
Who am I? You are the pilot. You exist at the beck and call of the voice on the radio. A chained beast to be unleashed on an unsuspecting foe.
Who does the voice belong to? Who is Mother. You've wondered it many times, as you taxi back to the hangar, adrenaline slipping from your grasp as though it were a fistful of sand. You think, for perhaps the dozenth time:
Do I know her from the world above?
... but you learned a long time ago not to ask that question aloud.
"Prepare for deployment, 0024-30431. I've lifted the mag-locks binding your joints and weapons, and you now have full authorization to kill with impunity for the duration of this mission."
"Be advised that you will be be disavowed if shot down on this sortie, but I have the utmost faith in your abilities. After all, I trained you. I created you, I made you the woman that you are, and Mother did not raise a failure."
This is, of course, all a part of the ritual. A script to be delivered at the beginning of each mission, and this time, like every time before, you feel the stir of something virile and primal rattling the cage of your ribs. Yearning to be free. Desperate to be unleashed.
"Prepare for launch in five..."
You brace your heel against the catapult, and feel a kindred spirit with the desperate, straining, pathetic thing.
Blood pounds in your ears like the crashing bootfalls of ten thousand soldiers marching in lock step, and you know that, soon, even this will be drowned out by the exhilarating rush of wind.
Your tongue feels fat and heavy, and you begin to salivate like a pet at mealtime. You open your mouth to breathe, and you can practically see your breath fog up in the musky cockpit as ropes of spit drip from your lips in thick, honeyed dollops.
You can't take it anymore, snarls claw free of your throat, and a howl splits your jaws wide. You thrash against the bindings, gnashing your teeth as you pull on the choke collar that leashes you to the seat, but Mother doesn't count any faster.
Warmth bubbles up from your core, threatening to spill over, and you rub your thighs together in anticipation of the plunge. You strain against the leather, chest heaving, and dripping with need. Just the command is left...
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