Nixie | Bell System

Date Night

You hadn’t set out to do this. You needed to get her functional as quickly as possible, so you made sure she trusted you more than anyone else. You needed to make her safe around other people, so you conditioned her to obey instantly. You used the tools you had within the constraints of your circumstances. It was what everyone needed. It was what you’d been ordered to do. If you’d refused, they simply would have gotten someone else.

You knew what you were doing was going to hurt her in the long term. You tried to mitigate it as best you could. She had her own room and her own bed, and you made sure she slept in it. You didn’t personally wake her up anymore, she got up with a tone alarm you set for her. You’d mostly weaned her off the painkillers, and only on her worst days did she need sedatives to sleep. You’d forced her to eat in the mess, with everyone else, and to use cutlery like a person. You got her to eat without you sitting next to her, and even sit with the other pilots. They didn’t like her at first, but her skills gave her a lot of slack. She was still the Hound, but she was their Hound.   

You’d done everything you could to help her be a person. You spoiled her, after a fashion. If she showed even a modicum of interest in anything, you had it waiting for her after her next successful mission. Mostly food or minor gadgets and knicknacks. You make sure she had clothes other than her suit and her uniform, though she had trouble understanding why she might want or need anything else. You tried to explain by showing her an old picture of yourself in a thin sundress, and she was enthralled. She wanted to know if you still had the dress, if she could see you in it, and seemed truly sad when you admitted the dress was long gone. It was pitiful enough you went out and found a new dress just for her, but then felt foolish and hid it away unopened.  

Unopened, at least, until that night. 

You watched the battle. You saw the impact, her struggling vitals and the screaming red warnings from her mech. You knew it was going to be bad. But seeing her machine crash into the safety nets, two limbs gone and one engine on fire, tore something in you. By the time they pried her out, bleeding and half dead, you were beyond reason. You grabbed her hand, and she looked at you with blood in her eyes.

“Did I…do a good job?”

You wept and promised that she’d done a good job. A great job. The best job. 

“Can I…have a reward?”

You promised her anything, anything in the world, and she laughed. You saw the twinkle in her eyes, and knew you’d been tricked. 

“Can I…see you in a dress?” 

You nearly hit her, and she was still smiling when the medics wheeled her away. So that night, while the surgeons put her back together, you dug out the dress. 

You didn’t believe in punishment. You provided negative stimuli, but it was corrective and preventative. Pain was never the point. If you had to apply a negative stimulus you did it immediately and stopped the moment the behavior ended. You never applied a negative stimulus after the behavior, you never took away something positive, and you certainly didn’t make her submit to being harmed. After she nearly scared you to death, however, you decided to make an exception.

There was a lovely little town near the base that most of the personnel visited when they managed to get leave. She’d never shown any interest in it, of course. The only places she ever seemed to want to be was inside her cockpit or at your side. Integrating with her fellow pilots was hard enough, so you didn’t want to push her out of her comfort zone. Now you were going to push her as far out of her comfort zone as you could, just to watch her squirm. 

The day before she was released from Medical, you marched in and explained what was going to happen. You would wear a dress, just like you promised, but only if she wore one of the outfits gathering dust in her closet. She had to pick the outfit, she had to put it on, and then you both would be spending the day in town. She would be on her absolute best behavior the entire time. If she stepped out of line even once, you would leave and she would never see you in a dress again. 

She nearly ripped her stitches in her haste to agree. 

You watched her through the cameras as she agonized over the civilian clothes she clearly didn’t understand, trying to figure out what you would like the most. You knew she’d look excellent in any of them, you were the one who got them for her, but her torment was delicious. She finally stumbled across the list of contact numbers you left for her, and called one of her wingmen for help. You weren’t sure she would be willing to do it, or that it would occur to her even with your hint, and you were so proud you almost had mercy. Then you remembered how she almost died on you, then had the temerity to laugh about it. That steeled your resolve. 

Even after her friends had finished mocking her and she’d put on civilian clothes with their help, you made her wait. You let her stew, pacing and nearly climbing the walls in nervous anxiety. She approached the door a dozen times, but you’d told her to wait. So she waited, pacing like a hungry dog, and you drank it in. 

You weren’t idle, of course. The moment you confirmed she’d make a full recovery you began planning your revenge. You knew every inch of her, literally. You knew the length and circumference of her damn bones thanks to the reports from the reconstructive surgeries. Her vitals were tracked every minute of every day by her implants, and all of it was sent directly to you. Every time her heart beat faster, you knew. Every time her brainwaves fluttered, you knew. She was the focus of your world. Anticipating her was your life, and everything you did was for her. You knew what she liked. You knew what excited her. You knew what drove her mad. And today…

You were going to push her to the absolute limit. 

Makeup wasn’t part of your normal routine. You were a soldier on a military base, after all. You didn’t even wear it much in your civilian life, but when you did you wore it like a weapon. It wasn’t much, just a few subtle touches to enhance your features. You knew the psychology behind change blindness, and you knew cosmetics were totally alien to her. She’d never suspect you’d done anything, you’d just somehow be…more. 

You applied the same approach to your scent. You’d gotten her to sample various fragrances in your endless experiments to find things she liked. There were some things she seemed to enjoy, but you had her vitals. You knew the scents that truly made her heart jump. So while she prowled her room, starved for your presence, you sat in her cockpit and bathed yourself in the perfume of battle. 

Finally, you went to her. You opened the door. Her head eagerly whipped around, and then she stood utterly gobsmacked. She stared in awe at you, like you were some kind of vision. She almost flinched away as you approached, which you'd expected. 

You moved faster, pressing into her space and using her lack of balance to shove her to the floor. You planted a foot on her chest, and her eyes fixed on the standard issue black boots you still wore. The fear subsided as recognition and familiarity returned. You were not some ethereal visitation. You were her Handler, and the comforting weight of your boot put her safely back in her place. 

You pressed down as you reminded her of her promise and what you expected. If she wanted a reward for being good, she had to prove she was good. Best behavior, no matter what. Time to show you how well trained she really was. 

She eagerly nodded and you pressed harder, because that wasn't all. She'd been cheeky, tricking and worrying you like this. Dogs weren't cheeky. People were. If she wanted to act like a person, you'd treat her like one, no matter how much she'd rather you didn't. No easy way out for her today. 

She would walk beside you, not behind you. You would talk, and she would listen. There would be a quiz later, so she would listen very carefully if she knew what was good for her. You would ask questions, and she would answer them. You would give her choices, and she would make them. Grunts, shrugs, growls, whimpers, “don't know”, and “don't care” would not be acceptable. 

Her eyes widened a bit with confusion and uncertainty. These were things you normally shielded her from. But you narrowed your eyes and pressed down with your boot, and she meekly promised to try. You pushed down with your entire weight, hard enough that you knew it would bruise tomorrow, and told her she'd have to do better than “try”. She nodded weakly and you abruptly turned for the door, leaving her to frantically scramble after you. 

You talked the entire way to the town. This was probably the most words you'd ever heard her say. Keeping her talking was simple, because she was so easy to bait into verbal traps. You'd ask a question, she'd give you a one-word answer, and then you'd make her explain. Why did she like that? What about this was interesting? You could almost hear the neurons popping in her little doggy brain as she realized she actually had to think. 

You still talked far more than she did, of course. Normally she didn’t listen to your words much. She knew the tone you used when you spoke a command or wanted her attention, and other than that your voice was just comforting background noise for her. Not today. Today she hung on your every word with nervous energy, waiting for you to demand she recite some trivia from whatever anecdote you’d been relating. The questions never came, of course, which merely put her more and more on edge.  

The town was a lovely place, almost untouched by the war, and you eased up as you led her on a scenic tour. You sometimes pointed out a shop, restaurant, or other point of interest, but you mostly walked in companionable silence. She visibly relaxed as you led her through the town, her posture softening and her heart rate dropping in your visual overlay. She was most alive in her cockpit, but she was most at ease simply existing in your presence. 

You stifled a small laugh as you passed a poster with her face and she didn’t show even a flicker of recognition. You’d worked hard on that, fighting through PR meeting after PR meeting, but you’d gotten your way. Her machine was instantly recognizable and virtually everywhere, but her face? Concealing helmets, dramatic angles, and a truly spectacular amount of digital touchups made her almost totally unrecognizable. You never appeared save as a background figure in a few candid images, someone easily dismissed as an aid or administrator. 

Someone from the base would know what you both actually looked like, of course, but it was well known the two of you never wore civilian clothes and never left the base. You’d quietly suppressed knowledge of her release, so as far as anyone else knew she was still recovering from surgery. No one would be looking for you, and likely wouldn’t recognize you even if you were somehow seen. You were nothing more than two strangers enjoying a day in the sun. 

You finally arrived at your destination, a cozy little clothing shop well off the main roads. You’d been here before, the dress that left her so dumbstruck had to come from somewhere, and you’d already made arrangements. A video call on an official line was enough to convince the owner that a certain prominent individual wanted to visit, but needed both privacy and anonymity. They’d been more than happy to close for the afternoon so you had the entire shop to youselves, especially when you offered to reimburse them for potentially lost profits. 

Technically, she was the one who reimbursed them. She had an extensive amount of backpay thanks to her years spent missing in action, pay she never spent and had no interest in. You put a great deal of effort into making sure it was carefully secured and invested, so she’d be taken care of no matter what happened, but you also made sure she had a generous amount of liquid assets in the extremely unlikely event she wanted or needed it. That’s what you were using to pay for this excursion, though she didn’t know and certainly wouldn’t care if you told her. 

The shop was empty when you arrived, with the blinds down and an apologetic “Closed” sign on the door. She looked at you quizzically, puzzled more by the fact that you’d stopped than by the fact that you’d stopped in front of an apparently closed store. You glanced at the door and raised a single eyebrow, and she nearly tripped in her haste to open it for you. You swept in, glanced around to confirm you were alone and there were no cameras, then turned and locked the door behind you. 

You watched her heart rate speed up as you prowled toward her and explained what was about to happen. You were going to take off your clothes, pick out a new outfit, and she was going to dress you in it. If she was a good girl, you’d let her see you in it. If she was a bad girl, you’d dress yourself and she’d have to sit in a corner until you finished trying on everything that interested you.

Her heart hammered and she stared at you with wild eyes. Your body had always been strictly off limits. You were never less than fully clothed in her presence, no matter the circumstances, and any physical contact was initiated by you. You watched her vitals spike as she connected the dots, and you laughed. Was she panting like a bitch in heat at the idea of seeing you naked? Did she think she’d earned something like that? Silly mutt. 

You pressed a button on your data band, and you turned off her eyes. 

You’d directly manipulated her cybernetic components before, but only when necessary and only in the smallest of ways. She knew you could do it, but you doubted she really understood what that meant…until now. You saw the spike of instinctive fear as everything suddenly went dark, but you were already moving. Your hand gently touched her face as you softly soothed her. It was fine. You were here. She was a good girl, and good girls got rewarded. 

Could she stay a good girl for you?

She nodded slowly, relaxing into your touch, and once you were sure she was fine you slid your hand away and began the true torment. You pulled off your thin dress and boots, making sure to take your time and make far more noise than such simple acts deserved. You watched her heart literally skip a beat as you playfully dropped your discarded dress over her head, the still warm fabric slithering down her face and body to pool at her feet. Then you made a great production of thoughtfully clicking through the racks of clothes, letting her imagination run wild. You’d already selected everything, of course. You just wanted to watch her squirm. 

Finally you had mercy. You grabbed your first outfit and clicked your tongue to summon her to your side. She approached, panic and fear rising as she realized she didn’t know what to do, and you reached out to touch her hand. You carefully guided her through the maze of zips, hooks, buttons, snaps, laces, and sliding fabric, watching the panic subside as she began to understand. Her pulse slowed as your hands, arms, and fingers danced with hers, falling into a comforting rhythm as you demonstrated the feel of each piece, how they interlaced, and how they sat on your body. 

The two of you didn’t do a very good job, if you were being strictly honest. She was a blind woman trying to dress someone else in clothes she’d never even seen before, being guided entirely by feel. That didn’t matter though. The empirical proof of her absolute trust, watching her go from total panic to pure relaxation just from your touch, filled you with a warmth you couldn’t describe. 

After some brief adjustments to correct her mistakes, you arranged yourself and restored her cybernetic eyes. You let her take you in, basking in the novelty and intimacy of being shown something you would show no one else. Then you turned her eyes off and demanded she take it off you again. She waited a moment for your guiding hands, and you chided her. Did she really expect you to do everything? This was supposed to be her task. She began uncertainly, but then with slightly more confidence as her fingers recalled your previous guidance. 

The absence of your hands made her more aware of the intimacy of her work. You’d made sure to select clothes that would force her to remain close to you, to run her hands all over you. As you’d anticipated, being unable to see merely made it even more intense. The first time she touched your bare flesh without the implied permission of your guiding hands she recoiled like she expected to be burned. You cleared your throat, and she obediently resumed her task.

It took far longer than it should have, but you were patient as she fumbled with the ties and buckles. Her hands sometimes slipped in dangerous directions, requiring a sharp click of your tongue to put them back where they belonged. These were clearly accidents, however, so you didn’t remark beyond the initial warnings. When she finally finished, you asked if she was sure, prompting a tactile exploration of every part of your body (every part that was permitted to her) to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. She hadn’t, but the mixture of panic and excitement was delightful to watch. 

She finally pronounced her task complete, and you expressed mild disappointment at how long it took. Clearly she needed more practice. Fortunately, you had all day. You began noisily looking through clothes again, and she whimpered audibly. 

By the time you finished it was evening. You didn’t actually buy anything, though you did note which outfits got the strongest reactions so you could perhaps order them later. She was almost sagging with relief as you walked back into the street, and you smiled cruelly. Did she think this was the worst you had planned? Silly mut. 

You informed her that it was time for dinner, which earned a nod, then a look of confusion as you simply stood expectantly. Confusion turned to panic as you mildly asked where she wanted to eat, your tone making it clear that "wherever you want” would not be an acceptable answer. You tapped your foot impatiently. You’d pointed out several restaurants just a few hours ago. Hadn’t she been paying attention like you told her to?

After spending the entire afternoon forcing her to run her hands over your bare body, you wouldn’t have been surprised if her brains had melted out of her ears, but that distraction had been part of the point. You watched her fight to remember while anxiously glancing at you. You could see the gears turning, frantically trying to recall the places you’d mentioned and figure out which one you’d like the most. You’d have none of that, not yet anyway.

You grabbed her forcefully and pulled her head down to meet your gaze, then demanded she repeat your original question. She obediently did so, and you told her to do it again, slowly, and think about each word. Terrible realization dawned when she realized you hadn’t asked her to pick a place you’d like. You’d asked her to pick a place she liked. There was a flash of relief as she realized she could just pick anything, followed by more terror when she remembered this morning’s questions and realized you were going to make her explain why. 

It was a trick, of course. There was no wrong answer, and you’d made sure to only point out places you were certain she’d enjoy. But she didn’t know that. You watched her panic and sweat as you waited patiently with a small smile on your face, her body glowing hotly in your overlay, until she finally blurted an answer. You arched an eyebrow, and she hesitantly explained that she’d liked the smell of the food as you’d passed by. 

She cringed uncertainly, eyes locked on you as she desperately tried to figure out if this was the correct answer. You gave a nod and a small smile before agreeing that it sounded wonderful. You watched relief flood her body, giving her a moment to enjoy it before ratcheting her back up by clearing your throat and shooting another expectant gaze. She abruptly realized you expected her to lead the way, and you watched her mind race to retrace your previous meandering path. 

It wasn’t particularly difficult, but your critical gaze ensured she remained on edge as she uncertainly guided you back to the restaurant you’d identified. Her vitals spiked with excitement when she spotted it, then spiked higher as she glanced at you and you gave a small smile. You cut her down almost immediately. What was she waiting for? Go get a table.

You saw her eyes lock onto an empty table on the patio, and you ended that literalist nonsense with a loud snap of your fingers. No. She didn’t get to just sit down. Go inside and ask for a table for two. Her pulse spiked and her eyes shot to your hand. No. You wouldn’t guide her through this. She promised you anything, and you were holding her to it. Walk in the door, wait in line like a good girl, and ask the host for a table. 

You’d seen her rush into impossible odds with a feral grin on her face and attack grown men with nothing but her hands and her teeth. The idea that she’d be terrified of something this simple would have been amusing if you couldn’t see her naked fear. Her vitals were going crazy, the overlay was practically blinding with alerts, her eyes were wide, and her chest heaving as she started hyperventilating. 

Your bark cut off the spiral of panic before it could truly set in. You gave her orders. Door. Line. Table. You snapped your fingers. Go!

Her feet were moving before her brain registered it (literally, you could see her brain waves), and you slid in behind her with a small smile. She approached the door like she was about to kick it down, so you clicked twice. That brought her up enough to merely open it instead of smashing through it. There was a line, but it was small and your very deliberately chosen orders had told her to wait. When you finally reached the host she obediently asked for a table without hesitation or fear, but with the robotic cadence of one reading off a script. She repeated your earlier command almost word for word. 

Conditioning could only go so far. If something unexpected happened here, the wheels would come off and she’d either panic or mindlessly press on like a broken drone. Thankfully you’d planned ahead yet again. Her gaze was laser focused on her mission, so she didn’t see you flash the host a look and a reservation ID on your data brace. You were answered with a knowing nod, and the two of you were immediately led to your waiting table. Her purposeful demeanor faded somewhat as she sat down and slowly realized she’d completed your orders, glancing around uncertainly as though confused at her own success.

You weren’t confused at all. You’d taken out reservations at every restaurant you’d showed her and quietly canceled the others once she made her selection. There was no need for her to know that, however, and you had other plans. Picking up your menu, you handed it to her and told her to order for both of you. She blinked in surprise, and you grinned like a shark as the shoe finally dropped. 

You’d slid in some comments about the food you liked and disliked during the morning’s conversation. If she’d paid attention like you told her to, she’d have all she needed to pick something you’d enjoy. She had better have been paying attention when you mentioned your allergies: good girls didn’t send their handlers into anaphylactic shock. 

The idea that she might somehow harm you made her shove the menu away like it was red hot. You saw the terror in her eyes, saw her open her mouth to refuse. There was no reward you could dangle in front of her or punishment you could threaten her with that would eclipse the unthinkable horror of something happening to you. You expected this, however, and pressed a single finger against her lips to silence her before she could speak.

There was a part of you that wanted to take off the mask. To scream and cry and force her to acknowledge your pain, the weight her blind trust forced you to carry. But you couldn’t. You were her world, her rock, her unshakeable guardian. You didn’t know what it would do to her if she knew how much it hurt every time she left on a mission, how much you agonized over every single command, but you knew she didn’t have room for doubt. She danced on the razors edge, milliseconds from death, and the distraction of worrying about you could be what finally tipped her over the edge. 

You would always be her Handler. You would always be perfect for her. You would always have a plan, you would always be prepared, so she wouldn’t have to hesitate for even an instant. You would stand on her pedestal and be her goddess and never let her see the blood leaking inside your mask, because this was all you could do.

You smiled, reached across the table, watched her heart jump as she got a tantalizing glimpse down your dress, and pulled something from the bag you’d ordered her to carry. You laid a carefully capped syringe of epinephrine on the table between you, and shot her a look that was ever so slightly reproachful. Her face flushed with shame even as her body sagged with relief. There was no danger. Even if she made a mistake, you would always be ready to catch her, because you were her Handler. 

You tapped the menu meaningfully, and she jumped as she remembered she was supposed to be selecting food for you. She read every word like there was a secret code hidden somewhere inside. She glanced up at you several times and almost opened her mouth to ask a question, but your firm glare stopped her. No more hints. You’d coddled her more than enough.

She almost had another panic attack attempting to give the waiter your order, glancing back to you with every word in case you might disapprove. You nodded in approval when she finished, and she sagged in relief before the waiter asked what she wanted for herself. That almost kicked off a second panic attack, because in her desperate focus on you she’d forgotten (and you knew she’d forgotten) to consider her own meal. You arched an eyebrow, and she frantically grabbed the menu before stammered out the first thing her eyes fell on. 

The food was delicious. She beamed at the confirmation that she hadn’t done poorly, and you let her rest in comfortable silence as you both ate. There were a few close calls, table manners had always been a sore spot for her, but she remained on her best behavior. You could see her yearning to attack her food with her bare hands, but she held back. She used her utensils, even if it was somewhat awkward, and she cut her food instead of ripping off bits with her teeth. 

As a reward, you let her sit while you selected and ordered dessert on her behalf. 

Night was falling as you walked back onto the street. You could tell the day was starting to get to her. Her stance was tight and her gaze a bit too focused, a sure sign her pain was flaring up again. She was favoring the stitches from her surgery as well. You gently took her arm and began leading her away. She needed to get off her feet, and you knew just the place. 

The place was a dance hall. It was a club, really, or as close as a town like this could get to simulating one. Dim lights, pounding music, expensive drinks, and a mass of bodies writhing together in the middle of it all. You pulled a chair close to the edge of the dance floor, pushed her into it, and explained what was going to happen. She was going to rest, and you were going to dance. If she stayed in the chair the entire time, you’d reward her. If she got up for any reason, you’d tie her to it with her belt and go back to dancing. 

Then you turned away and walked onto the floor. 

Something you’d noticed very quickly in your relationship was how defensive she was of you. You knew you’d have to train her not to react to others showing her aggression or getting in her space, but you quickly realized you’d need to train her for if they did the same to you. It didn’t happen often: roughhousing was expected for pilots and soldiers, but Handlers were generally untouchable. You had her vitals though. Every time someone got too close to you, touched you or grabbed you, her whole body tensed. If allowed, she instinctively positioned herself between you and anything she considered dangerous or unfamiliar. 

You knew her joints and implants would be throbbing. Her incisions were likely stabbing with pain. The lights strobed between blinding illumination and near total darkness, and the music pulsed loud enough to rattle your bones. She was in a strange place, surrounded by strange people. She was as on edge as you could make her without chemical assistance, and then you started to dance. 

You weren’t a dancer, but you didn’t need to be for this. You twisted through the throng like a snake, gliding and rubbing and grinding against everyone within reach. It didn’t matter who, how, or why. There were strangers around you, they were touching you, and you were touching them. You knew the envious, territorial part of her soul was roaring, screaming to run to you and force everyone away from you. You glanced at her with a sadistic smirk, and what you saw made you drop character. 

She looked practically feral. Her gaze was laser focused, and her jaw was clenched so tight you could almost feel her teeth grinding. She was on the edge of her seat, every muscle tensed like a cord. Her feet worked against the floor like a predator digging in to pounce, and you could practically hear her growl. The last time you’d seen her like this there’d been blood on the floor a second later, and a thrill of fear shot through you as you realized this time she’d be lunging for you. 

The fear must have shown for an instant, because she moved. Her fingers released their crushing grip on the chair, and her legs started unspooling like springs as she began flowing to her feet. You had one instant to avoid disaster. 

Before she could rise, your eyes locked on hers. You silently projected every ounce of force, every fraction of will. You were unyielding and immovable. It was not a look that promised punishment if she disobeyed, it was a statement of inarguable fact. She would sit down, and she would stay down until you said otherwise. This was not a struggle. This was not a question of dominance. You were her Handler, she was your Hound, and she would SIT. DOWN. 

She sat. 

She didn’t relax. Though you pretended you were ignoring her as you writhed against the mass of humanity around you, your body was mostly moving on autopilot. Your actual attention was on the vitals in your overlay. Every time she started to adjust or acclimatize, you cranked up the tension. You hiked up your dress, you tossed your unbound hair, you vanished into the crowd. Every time it became unbearable and she started to rise, your gaze fell on her and she sank back down. 

You couldn’t keep this up forever. You were starting to tire, and you knew she was too. More importantly, being constantly on edge would make her pain worse when she relaxed enough to start feeling it again. So you slid out of the crowd and stood imperiously before her. 

Had she been good? Did she deserve a reward?

She turned her gaze away, clearly remembering all the times she’d been forced back by your glare. Finally, she shook her head in silent defeat. Ah. What a shame. You grabbed her hair and forced her to look up at you. But she didn’t get to decide good or bad. She didn’t get to decide what she deserved. 

You did. 

You released her hair and slid your hand down to softly cup her face. Your smile shone with silent promise, and you held out her beloved mask.  

Did she want a reward?

“Yes. Please, yes.”

Good girl. 

You pulled it over her head as though anointing her, gently but firmly tightening the straps until they could be tightened no further. You felt the relief flow through her even before you triggered the aerosol you’d placed inside. Her body relaxed as her pain began to subside, then you pulled her to her feet and onto the dance floor. 

A flash of fear appeared as she realized she didn’t know how to dance, but it evaporated with one look at you. No more tests, no more torment. She wore her mask, and you wore yours. You were her Handler, she was your Hound, and this was a dance both of you knew by heart. Not passion or grace, but absolute trust and absolute understanding. 

You led, she followed. You advanced, she retreated. You stepped back, she stepped forward. You circled, she spun. You offered, she grasped. You knew exactly what to do to make her move exactly how you wanted. A touch, a gesture, a step, that was all it took. 

Her eyes glazed slightly as the rhythm set in and the medication sank deeper. The light became less intense, the noise muffled, the crowd faded into a soft blur. There was only you. No thoughts, no worries, no fears. Only you. You pushed, you pulled, she responded. She was a marionette, and you were her puppet master. She danced gloriously on your strings, and smiled with joyous freedom. 

She would have danced forever if you’d asked. The drugs might have kept the leadened feeling from her limbs, but they didn’t spare yours, and you needed to remain alert. Thankfully, yours was a dance that did not need music or a floor. When the time came, you gave the barest tilt of your head and she followed you out without hesitation. You walked through the cool night, no words or gestures, just simple touches as you guided her the way you wanted her to go. She might have followed you like that all the way home, lost in the hypnotic stupor of your control, but you had one last trick to play.

The useful thing about her mask was that it could hold several different sprays at the same time. You’d previously hit her with a fast-acting pain killer, but as you traveled home you triggered a slow release of the second aerosol you’d loaded. 

The combat stim. 

You doubted she ever realized what was happening. The pleasant haze faded away, but the pain never came back. Instead you watched her pulse begin to slowly increase as the stim took hold. By the time you flashed your ID at the gate, her eyes were darting and her fingers were twitching. 

You’d been toying with her all day. Pushing her to the edge of her restraint, drowning her in anxiety and excitement and outrage, then yanked her back just before she could topple over. You allowed just enough relief to get her to lower her guard so your next surprise could hit even harder. Collapsing at last into your control had provided the security her mind desired, but her body demanded something else. The stims brought her back to the edge, and this time you had no intention of pulling her away. 

You gently held her face, and in her keyed up desperation she grasped your arms like a drowning woman. She’d done very well. She’d managed to keep to her best behavior, just like you asked. She had been a good girl, and good girls were rewarded. Would she like that?

She nodded frantically, craving something she didn’t understand, didn’t even have words for. But you did. 

Come. 

She followed, torn between a mad need and her conditioned training to remain by your side. She yearned to race ahead, but didn’t know where you were going and didn’t want to disobey. You decided to simplify things for her. You slammed her against the nearest wall, and your hand went to her waist. You pulled off her belt with the cold slither of leather on fabric, and looped it around her neck. You gave a sharp yank, tightening it around her throat and pulling her in the direction you wanted to go. Something raw and sharp spiked in the overlay, and spiked again every time you tugged her impromptu leash toward your destination. 

Her eyes widened as the doors opened and she realized where you’d brought her: the hangar.  

Her mech sat alone on the gantry before you, the cockpit already open and waiting. There were no technicians, no cameras, just you and her. Her pulse raced and muscles surged as she realized what it was she’d been craving. Yesyesyesyes-

A tug brought her up short, and she whimpered desperately. You grabbed her mask, yanked her upright, and snapped a command. 

Freeze. 

Like before, it wasn’t an order or a threat. It was a statement that would allow no avenue for disobedience. She could no more resist than water could run uphill. You said freeze, and she froze as still as a statue. A pitiful, desperate whine came from behind her muzzle-like mask, but she didn’t move. 

Soon, you assured her, if she was good. There was one last thing to take care of. She’d dressed you, after all. You held up her pilot suit and her eyes widened in delight. It was only fair you dressed her. 

She was practically vibrating with eagerness as you peeled away her civilian clothes, glancing down and whimpering as if silently begging you to go faster. You were in no rush, however. You were no stranger to her body, but until now you had made sure you kept things entirely professional. This time, you stopped to admire. Hormones had done wonderful things to her figure, and while others might find her network of scars horrifying you lovingly traced every single one. 

The sensation that crossed her face as you slid her formfitting pilot suit up her body wasn’t quite relief. She was too on edge for that. Comfort or familiarity, perhaps? She would wear her uniform if she had to, but her suit was the only clothing she truly seemed comfortable in. She’d remain in it 24/7 if you’d let her. Her quivering and whining lessened, the skintight material a silent promise of what would happen next. 

You snapped for her attention and pointed down. She fell to her knees without hesitation. You snapped again. Hands. She leaned forward, getting onto her hands and knees. You circled around her, straddled her body, put your hands on her back, and pushed. The link connectors in the back of her suit slid into the sockets of her implants, and she stiffened at the shock. You waited for the sting to fade to tingling numbness, then snapped for her attention. 

Up.

She rose, eyes locked on her open cockpit, and you gave a quick yank on her recovery cable. She almost fought, eagerness and the stims warring against your conditioning, but you kept your hand on the cable the entire time. She was much stronger than you, she could have pulled free if she wanted, but you’d trained her better than that. She pulled with exactly as much slack as you gave her, but the moment the cable went taut she came up short. 

You walked her all the way to the lip of the cockpit, then stopped. She glanced back at you, silently begging to be released so she could climb inside. You held her for a few seconds to make the point that this happened only when you said it did, before finally nodding and letting go. She scrambled frantically inside, and her whole body sagged in relief as she slid into the familiar control chair. 

Normally the technicians helped with startup, but this time there was only you. You placed her legs into the stirrups and snapped the metal plates around them. You slid her arms through the titanium hoops of the control frame, guiding her forward to lace her fingers around the controls with the solemnity of a lady presenting her chosen champion with a sword. You wrapped the straps of the control harness around her body and clamped the metal collar closed around her throat. 

You stepped back and pressed a button on your brace. The support frame slid closed around her, pinning her completely in place. The frame was intended to protect the pilot from being thrown around in combat and did its job well. Too well, according to many pilots. She couldn’t even turn her head to see you anymore, something that was causing a bit of distress according to the overlay. You could fix that. 

You pressed another button, and she abruptly cried out as the link spikes thrust through the connectors and slid directly into her spine. The entire cockpit lit up as the link was established, and in the silent hangar you heard the whir of the mech’s cameras swerving to point at you.  

Her muscles relaxed but her pulse continued to increase as the startup sequence continued. You approached again, leaning into the cockpit and past her bound form to press a few keys on a pad. 

> Neural Sync Active

> Electropolymer Links: Disconnected

She had full control over her mech, but you’d disabled the connection to its artificial muscles. She could do whatever she wanted, she’d get full feedback, but the mech wouldn’t move. You trailed your hands up her helpless body before gently pulling the aerosol dispenser off her face. She didn’t need this anymore. No more masks tonight. 

She took a deep breath of the cockpit’s recycled air, then stiffened as she smelled something new. Even though the cockpit had been closed for most of the day, you’d had to resort to somewhat extreme methods to make sure your scent would linger until you returned. The techs certainly wouldn’t have approved, but you had control of the cameras and they knew better than to question what you did behind a closed hatch. 

Her reaction to smelling you here, in her most primal and sacred of spaces, was everything you’d hoped for. She thrashed against the harness and frame, either in excitement or to silently demand an explanation, but she was completely restrained. She couldn’t even move her head. With a smug smile, you closed the cockpit and plunged her into darkness. 

She was most relaxed with you, but she was most herself in her mech. The engine roared like a furnace below its plates, and a half dozen cameras and sensors tracked you as you walked along the gantry. This was her true identity, the burning core no amount of horror, drugs, or conditioning could touch. Your boots clanged against the metal plates. Her fins and stabilizers twisted as she attempted to flex her frozen muscles. 

You could leash this part of her, but you could never fully control or tame it. That excited you in ways you couldn’t describe. You almost never got to see her like this, at home in her metal body with all the apathy and uncertainty stripped away. You were usually far away in a command center, surrounded by screens and readouts and a dozen other people. Not this time. 

You were finally alone with her. She was entwined with the most advanced killing machine anyone had ever devised, melded so deep there was no way to tell where she stopped and the mech began. You’d seen her power, her speed, her ferocity. The most lethal thing on the continent, perhaps the entire planet, only barely held under control. 

You wanted to see the controls snap. You wanted to experience her, all of her, the wild and primal core finally unleashed. You’d pushed and pushed, driven her to the edge with anxiety and discomfort and teasing and drugs, all for this moment. She was raw and snarling, her body and instincts demanding to be unleashed, but your control held. She trusted you. She knew you’d set her loose when the time was right, so she waited. 

Finally, you stood in front of her mech on the gantry. Every single one of her sensors locked on you, and you slid your feet apart and spread your arms so she could see you as you saw her. Her scanners could detect the heat from your flushed body. Her seismic inputs could sense your hammering heart. Her cameras could track every bead of sweat, every tiny twitch of your muscles. Her sensors were advanced enough to see through walls. Your thin dress and boots were no barrier at all. 

You were totally exposed to her. 

No more masks tonight.You looked directly into her primary camera, and let your true emotions slide onto your face at last. The love you had for her, all of her. Your fear of her power, her strength, her savagery. Your excitement to see it unleashed. Your naked, greedy desire to experience her entirely her element and on her terms. You pulled up the overlay, watching her vitals soaring with similar eagerness. 

You slid a finger along your brace, causing an indicator to flash in her cockpit. A reminder that the muscle links were offline. She could do whatever she wanted, rage as much as she desired, without fear of harm. You saw the flicker of recognition in the overlay, then the surge of adrenaline as she realized what it meant. 

With one last look, you snapped your fingers and issued a final command. 

Attack. 

-

You didn’t pull her out until she’d fully exhausted herself. By the time you opened the cockpit, she was hanging limply from the restraints with rivers of sweat running down her face. Utterly spent. 

You gently helped her out of loops and harnesses. She’d been almost too weak to stand. You practically carried her to the showers, where you finally helped her out of her suit. She’d popped her stitches, you’d be getting an earful about that later, but an emergency bandage would ensure it kept until tomorrow. You sat her on the floor under the running water and began to softly wipe away the day’s grim and sweat with scentless soap. You placed her head in your lap to wash the grease from her hair, and the comfort of your presence and her exhaustion finally caught up with her. She was asleep before you finished. 

She slept in your bed, in your arms, her bare flesh against yours. You stroked her hair and sighed. 

It was a pipe dream. It would never happen. The war would kill her, you knew. Some day, she would leave on a mission and she wouldn’t come back.

Even if you somehow won the war, even if by some miracle you both survived, there was no future for you. The things you’d done, the lines you’d crossed… The number of regulations you’d broken today alone would have been an immediate court martial for anyone else, and today’s antics weren’t nearly the worst of what you’d done. 

If you both survived, she’d be taken away and entire teams of psychologists could be horrified at the mess you’d made of her mind. If there was any justice you’d be in prison for the rest of your life, but you doubted it. That would mean admitting the number of people who’d known about your “unorthodox methodology” and the lengths that had gone into covering it up. 

They’d probably let you go, but you’d never see her again. Complete no contact. Your presence, anything that reminded her of you, might prompt a relapse into dependency. Objectively, it was what she needed. It was what she deserved. If she remembered you at all, she would remember you as the abuser who took advantage of her vulnerability and everyone’s desperation. 

That was what it should be, you thought. But you hadn’t been able to help yourself. 

Today had been a test, a dry run to see if she could handle life outside of the enclosed structure of being a pilot. She’d struggled, but she’d tolerated it. She made choices, she interacted with people. It wasn’t much, but you didn’t need much. If you both survived, if they let you keep her…you could have a future together. 

The entire thing had been a mistake, of course. Knowing it could happen only made it more painful, because you knew it wouldn’t. You should have left well enough alone. But you hadn’t been able to resist, and now your heart broke for the life you’d never have. 

But you never could help yourself when it came to her. 

So instead of walking away, instead of figuring out a way to tell her this would never happen again, you wrapped your arms around her and fell asleep, dreaming of that selfish, greedy, impossible future.

There will be more events, and they will be wonderful in different ways

Yes, it’s a bummer to return to real life, but remember: there will be other events.. Was this one wonderful in a very specific way that it will be impossible to replicate? Probably—but that will be true of all the future events too, and each event is generally wonderful in a surprising new way.

Plan a gentle re-entry, if you can

If possible, take a day or two after con as a buffer before returning to real life and day job. Sleep extra, take a long walk, get yourself a treat, journal about your experiences… Whatever the specifics, it can be useful to have a demarcation between your special fun con time and the bustle of daily life. (For instance, I’m posting this a little later than intended because before I could write this up, I had to sleep for 12 hours and treat myself to a bagel.)

Even if you can’t plan a whole day of buffer, think about how you can make your life easier the first few days post-con—maybe block off your work calendar so you don’t have a bunch of meetings your first day back, or plan a light social week so you don’t have a ton of obligations.

And of course, if you have an abrupt re-entry or a sharp change of plans, expect the drop to be a little worse! That might sound scary, but I personally like having an explanation for what seems like untraceable cruddy feelings. If that’s your situation, give yourself extra grace, and lean into the ways you can soften things for yourself.

Let go of your regrets, remember the good bits

No con is perfect, and there are always lows mixed in with the highs; the person you didn’t connect with, the scene that went sideways, the social interaction that was weirdly unsatisfying, etc. When your brain is already in a bad place from drop, you might find yourself dwelling on the things that were unideal or that you wish had gone differently.

This can manifest as sadness, regret, guilt, feeling like people don’t like you, or a whole host of other negative emotions. While those are all valid emotions, remember that they’re being magnified by your drop brain, and probably feel bigger and more present than they deserve to be. Give yourself some grace, and remember that the bad parts of con are inevitable—in fact, they’re necessary to have all the good parts. When drop takes you to that pessimistic place, make sure you’re reflecting on the positive bits of con as well: journal about them, talk to friends and reminisce about all the fun stuff you did, and just generally make sure you’re saving space in your brain for the positive reflections!

Your daily life is probably pretty good, actually

When I come back from a really good con, my daily life feels pale by comparison. I think, “ugh, how does any of this compare to Weird Kinky Nirvana, and do I actually care about any of this??” But I do my best to remember that Past SOL actually felt pretty good about things here at home, and that until I can think clearly again, I just have to trust that she knew what she was talking about.

Take all the time you need to mope, to rest, to be sad, but remember that your everyday is probably pretty good; if it seems dull right now, it’s just because you had a brief and wonderful burst of REAL FREAKIN’ GOOD.

And honestly, part of what makes con so special is that they’re removed from our daily lives. If you just lived at con, it would lose its luster and specialness; the gulf between con and your daily life probably seems vast, but that’s part of what makes the experience so magical. Also, the reason real life might seem extra blah for a second is that…

You might have blown out your dopamine receptors, whoops (i.e. Slow Things Down)

When I’m deep in con drop, I can feel restless and want to be occupied every second, but simultaneously not excited about any of my usual leisure activities. In my completely unscientific opinion, that damn much stimulation and emotional high can temporarily fry your brain. For me, it makes sitting still feel uncomfortable but simultaneously makes normally-stimulating activities feel not-stimulating-enough.

Annoyingly, the solution (at least for me) is usually to s l o w   d o w n. I like to turn off my phone for a few hours and go to the park with a book or a journal, maybe treat myself to a solo meal out (crucially, without any of my devices on me). To wind down, where I might normally play a flashy video game, I might instead opt for a crossword puzzle, or doing a craft while watching a cozy cooking show. (I plan to watch a LOT of Chopped this week, and am going to put off playing Hades 2 for a little while longer so I don’t re-fry my brain with dopamine.)

If you feel like you’re vibrating all the time and don’t want to be alone with your thoughts… well, sometimes the solution is to be alone with your thoughts anyway. Sit around. Loaf on the couch and stare at the ceiling. Let your thoughts and feelings happen. It might feel unpleasant at first, but this sort of slowing down can help your body and brain reset.

Take care of your body, even when it’s annoying

You were probably kind of a jerk to your body at con, so be extra nice to it now. Sleep enough, hydrate, stretch or exercise, go outside and see the sun, eat enough food (and probably a vegetable or two).

Also, give yourself a little treat, you deserve it! Spring for a massage or take a luxurious bath or take a trip to your favorite bakery. You’re tender and recovering, so be soft with yourself.

Con drop scrambles your whole brain

Don’t be surprised if you’re randomly sad or weepy, are unfocused at work, or are reacting strongly or emotionally to things that seem to have nothing to do with con. This sort of drop scrambles your whole brain a little bit; this is normal and expected, and it will pass. Give yourself grace and space, and try to take it easy this week. Also, crucially, try not to make big decisions right after con (e.g. break-ups, quitting your job, registering for your next event)—come back to this stuff in a week or two once your system has settled.

I know that when I’m in con drop, my anxiety often spikes over totally unrelated (and often existential) things, and all of my problems suddenly seem really urgent and scary. I do my best to remind myself that the urgency and the fear are at least in part the result of my brain-scramble; I try to be kind to myself and honor those feelings, but mostly to put them on a shelf and say “hey, we can look at these again in a week.” If everything still feels catastrophic when I return to those feelings later, then they probably warrant action, but 9 times out of 10, when my brain has returned to baseline post-con, those anxieties and fears subside back down to something way more manageable.

Reach out to your community

This is hard to balance with some of the couch-flop/hiding-in-a-hole that is necessary after a whole weekend of non-stop social, but: remember to reach out to your community. Talk to your old and new friends from con about the good bits and the bad bits, check in on how they’re doing, ask them for a pep talk or commiserate about your drop together. And sure, flirt outrageously with your new con crush! (Just uh, don’t make any big plans or life changes until you’re well and truly out of the post-con brain fog.)

You can also talk to other kink friends who weren’t at that specific con, or even friends who aren’t affiliated with the kink world at all! (Y’know, if you have those.) Reconnecting with people at home who weren’t at con can be grounding and remind you of what you like about your everyday life.

Figure out what works for you, and remind yourself

Everyone’s solutions to con drop will be different, and over time, you’ll develop your own individual playbook of the things that work best for you. However, some non-trivial portion of us will have a hard time recalling that very logical Con Drop Playbook when in the thick of the drop (why else do you think I’m writing this post?). Consider jotting down some things that help you through drop, and keeping them as a reminder for the next time you’re directly post-event, losing your damn mind and unable to conceive of a single thing to do about it. Honestly, even a scheduled reminder for a few days after con ends that says “hey, wondering why everything sucks? It’s Con Drop, drink some water” can be a godsend!

It might last longer than you think

Every drop is different, and everyone’s brains work through it differently. You might feel totally fine after a good night’s sleep post-event, or you might feel like trash for a whole week while your system re-calibrates. Be gentle to yourself the whole darn time.

Crucially, as you get further from the event, it’s easy to forget that you might still be in drop; try to keep in mind that even half a week later, if you’re feeling sad for “no reason”, there might actually be an extremely logical reason! I find that knowing where my miscellaneous cruddy feelings are coming from helps a lot to remind me that I’m not just losing my mind and that it will get better. And speaking of how it will get better:

This too shall pass

This is the biggest thing I try to remember when I’m deep in the drop: this too shall pass. I know it intellectually—how many times have I been through this exact emotional rollercoaster??—but in the moment, in the quagmire of my own feelings and with my critical thinking faculties shot, it’s hard to trust. Often, when I’m deep in bad feelings, I can’t conceive of feeling any differently than I currently do.

But I know that I’ll get through it, and hey, I promise that you will too. Bodies rest and heal, and emotions level out and return to baseline; it’s what they do, when you let them. You can help the process along with the tips above, by taking care of your body and being gentle with your emotions and reaching out to your community for support; but even without your help, it’ll happen. Look back on your past experiences, or ask a friend to remind you when you don’t believe yourself, or just believe me: this feeling will pass, and you’ll be back to your emotional baseline in time!

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