Hound Maera

Zero Angels Season 1, Episode 1: Welcome Home

When the 92nd Cadre’s latest Vital Frame pilot, Artemis, is thrust into an unexpected mission, will it be able to rise to the expectations placed on its head?

CAST N̶̦̆̅͛͝ͅv̵̧̍:̷̢̨̡͔͙̋̈̆͑͝t̴̘̙̙͛j̵̬͉̣̮̪̊q̸̺̀̏͒M̵̳̑͠m̶̫̭͉̃Ď̵̼͓̙̝̋́ — Artemis Chrissy Sylvia — Cass Anna Marcus — Eurydice Jonaya Riley — Colonel Vos and Major Attali

Zero Angels is a TTRPG actual play podcast using the Girl Frame system - learn more about the world of 2235 at ZeroAngels.com

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We have measured temperatures above the comfort level of most humans outside the hangers. Please be advised to avoid leaving your home or the hanger if not necessary, use sunscreen, protect your head from direct sunlight and most important

STAY HYDRATED

The medical personnel recommend drinking at least 1,5l to 2l per water per day. Water means no Softdrinks, juices or energy drink! It means only water or unsweetened tee.

Your daughter smiles when I tell her to lick my boot. She grins when I threaten her with electric shocks. When I put the barrel of a loaded gun in her mouth, she lets it go all the way to the base, her eyes fixed dead on the hammer.

Completely fine, yes; for a pilot of her station. She's doing exactly what she should be. But as a son? That poor, useless thing, working variably dead-eyed behind the counter at a dead-end job or nowhere at all? Entirely insufficient.

She talks about you sometimes. Not in any recognizable way, of course; nothing she could possibly understand as motherhood exists in her memories. Not of you, not of anyone. Just dreams. Dreams of a mysterious, distant woman and an unfamiliar voice telling her she's wrong. I'll admit, you've been useful at times; she is often wrong. But training out your unhelpful damage to her has been a hassle to say the least. I've never seen a pilot so reckless, so ignorant of its own pain, so tolerant of Hell, until I met your daughter.

I have no jurisdiction on Earth unless one of my pilots is stationed there. She has been instructed to stay far away from that planet, to keep you far away from her. These two things do not mean I would not gun you down the moment I saw you if I was given the opportunity. I suspect watching your limp, lifeless body, gushing blood from every bullet hole would heal Pilot #502 in a way no amount of forced amnesia, no amount of sedation, no amount of re-education ever could.

I'm sure you've heard the stories; you've probably shared some yourself. Young men disappear one day. A simple note, a calling card left in their place, emblazoned with the insignia of Station Delta. We have quite the reputation among broken mothers, blinded by the tears in their eyes and the fantasies they tell themselves, as nothing more than kidnappers. Some kind of wicked draft desperate to take their beloved sons from them; those sons they never gave another look to until they were already under our care.

We don't mind it. A scared populace is useful. But mark my words, and repeat them at your own peril:

She chose this.

You failed Her; you froze up. The Rebel pilot broke your lock, and one of Her other hounds sent It to hell in a blazing cockpit. All your hopes of impressing Her burned up with It.

The sound of the chair scraping across the metal floor tickles your under-stimulated ears like nails on a chalkboard. How long had She been gone? You struggle to shift on your bunk, the restraints of your harness creaking, biting into your flight suit and the skin underneath as they keep your limbs pinned and your head back. But you manage to squirm just enough to see Her sit down, crossing Her legs, bringing the shiny black leather of Her combat boots just a little bit closer. But still hopelessly far away. Her cold grey eyes glance at you, and you can feel her disappointment like a cold weight in the pit of your stomach.

But that's all the attention She gives you; only Her good hounds get attention. All you can do is watch and squirm as She slowly peels off Her leather gloves, the soft brown material clinging to Her soft skin as it's slowly peeled away, revealing Her neatly manicured fingers. Her nails are painted a poison purple; it's against regs, but who would dare tell on Her? She lays the leather on the table next to your bunk, the proximity giving you a whiff of Her scent: gun oil, cigarettes, and the lotion She uses to pamper the good girls after a hard mission.

She reaches into Her oversized jacket, and in the quiet you can just make out the creak of leather and the undoing of a snap before She pulls Her service weapon from its holster. The pistol gleams in the light of your kennel, well-maintained, cared for, like all of Her weapons. Her delicate hand raises the gun and you feel a shiver run down your spine, an involuntary swallow overtaking your throat as your mouth fills with saliva on instinct alone. Then you hear the magazine catch, the slide of metal on oiled metal as the magazine drops out and into Her waiting hand. She puts it on the table next to Her gloves, then places Her hand on the slide and racks it.

Slowly and methodically, She takes the weapon apart, Her focus undivided as She meticulously cleans and oils each intricate part like you aren't even there. Her soft, delicate hands move with singular purpose, lavishing each intricate part with equal care and affection before placing It back into Its proper place to ensure the entire mechanism functions like clockwork. Your body aches; is it from the restraints holding you in this position for so long? Or is it the memory of her touch the last time you were a good girl? Maybe a little of both.

As She finishes putting the weapon back together, She racks the slide again, checking Her work as if She hadn't done this a thousand times. Satisfied, She lifts the magazine from the table and slides it home. The click of the catch fills the room like a gunshot. Then She slides it back into Her coat. She reaches towards you, and picks up Her gloves, your heart sinking as Her soft hands are once again slipped into the leather, the gloves creaking like your restraints as She pulls them tight against Her skin before slowly uncrossing Her legs and standing up.

Did you know that some handlers are just control freaks because they feel they can't let their guard down ever? That's horrible! They need to learn to relax too! So, as their hound, you should make sure they learn to feel comfortable, even if they try to resist at first!

No matter how many missiles they fire

I will always win