N81 Snow Ghost

They've stopped fixing the paint on the Sandstorm for a while now, only when it needs to be shown off in the public do they paint on anything, but after two sorties there was more metal than paint visible.

High above the rough, black flooring Maera exits into the docking port. It is covered in sweat from head to toe, but the medic in the dock only took note of the saliva.

"How are you feeling?" She asked, tracing her fingertip over her chin.

Maera wiped the drool off its face with an awkward fingering though the grates of the muzzle. "I'm fine, it felt great, but I'm a bit lost... You know, as usual."

The medic blindly typed on a tablet while inspecting the hound's body, tightly shaped by the sensor-suit. "Any damage?"

The hound gave a whoop: "Too much to mention! The legs–"

The medic cut it off: "On you."

It turned it's eyes down: "Oh, no nothing really."

Then the Handler came in. Her boots too black, her medals too shiny. She took up the entire room with her energy, so cold, so stiff, so strong. "It's lying." The words seemed to have wrapped around the hound's throat. The creature collapsed on the metal floor, heaving and writhing. "N-n-no... I didn't... I'm okay... I'm healthy..."

But the Handler did not take that refutation. She took a step that reverberated in the entire dock. The reinforced tip of her boot landed between it's paws and She bended down, seizing the muzzle and dragging the begging mess towards Her. "Down"

The hound's body seized up and then slumped down. It curled up in a strange mixture of childish crawling and dog-like elegance, tenderly nursing its right arm.

But then I start associating Her voice and commands with the mech I pilot.

Every sortie becomes a communion. Every training drill is offering. Being outside of the cockpit is torture. Maintenance is ritual.

When I’m not connected to Her my whole body feels disproportioned and wrong. I don’t want to be separated anymore; I want to be a part of Her forever.

…does She feel how badly I need it when my neural interface is plugged into the cockpit?

+Good morning, my so- my daughter wants to join the "Hound Corps"

-uhm sir, do you know what we do with these girls?

+*Sigh* yeah, I know

Second Draft

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Blood flows to my cheeks, whilst a reluctant warmth spreads in my chest. I inhale, trying to resist temptation. Much like holding a sneeze, however, it’s an attempt made in vain. My attempts to stop simply result in my head diving straight back in like a slingshot. I feel the pressure building in my head.

-Mi: Give…need…food-

My head aches, as if something is trying to shove itself out of my skull. I collapse, and watch as I continue eating. I cease the attempts to stop, understanding the futility. The pain only reduces slightly.

-Rayne: N…no I…need to…it’s s_-

-Mi: So goood~ Please more!

I feel the switch flip in my brain. The sensations encapsulate my thoughts, and I feel myself become completely entranced. Whatever scraps remain of the cat food, have now been licked clean. And yet, a yearning desire remains, a hole that is left unfilled. My head is hazed, and my thoughts turn toward pleasure.

I try to lick myself clean, pawing my face before licking off what I can. The hatch interrupts as it squeaks open once more. Something drops out, followed by a sharp *CLICK*. It’s a note that flutters to the ground, before landing in the empty bowl. The message is short, but the calligraphy is masterful. It appears that much care was put into the short blurb, with a style reminiscent of a friend long gone.

”Good Girl. Now return the bowl Mittens”

it reads, with no signature.

-Mi: I’m a good girl?! I like being good!-

An arousing warmth rising from the praise, spreading through my face. Ripples run down my neck and through my chest. The sweet words linger in my soul, resonating. The name is…from something I can’t put my finger on. The drugs dilute the memories long before they surface.

“Why is that so…” I attempt to ponder, but I am swiftly interrupted as a piercing, high pitch noise like nothing I’ve ever heard breaches the silence. It stabs at my ear drums. I quickly cover them, but it’s useless. The sound just amplifies, louder and louder. Whatever thoughts I was about to have are buried. The world is drowned as I close my eyes and curl into a fetal position. I scream, shaking my head in resistance as the fog is replaced by brutal awareness. 

I start crying, tears rolling down my face. My face is red with discomfort. "Why are you doing this??" I wail, and the only response I receive is a note that falls through the flap. I bend over, struggling to read from the piercing pain. I pick it up with a shaking hand. This time, the note is written with precision, purposeful, with not a single wasted pen stroke to deliver a message in red.

"Return the bowl, and I'll make it stop."

A clear order... and an even clearer incentive. What choice do I have? It's this or blinding pain. I make the reasonable decision, picking up the bowl and return it to the hatch. My grip is unsteady, but I manage to drop it out before collapsing on the floor. After a moment, the noise disappears once again.

A rush of cold air rushes inward, crawling in my veins. I squeeze myself into a tight ball, shivering violently as it fills my very soul. I'm overcome with thoughts of guilt. My thoughts return, but in a broken tone that always spirals the emptiness.

-C: I just needed to listen. If I had just listened.... please....please wake up.-

The memories of holding her charred corpse linger, overtaking my faculties. The world falls apart around us, leaving me just holding the burnt body, forgetting where I even am. The feelings of the winter air hitting the open cockpit. The smell of the embers still burning under her skin. The sick, nauseating feeling of her body crumbling in my arms. My soul sits still. Quiet, empty, and hollow. The morbid guilt that jabs and guts in a way beyond description.

Unending.

Unyeilding.

Unavoidable.

An angle even

At least is that what they tell you, but you dont see it

They say you bring hope, they say you bring peace

But you dont see purity, you dont see light

In your eyes you bring nothing but death and destruction

You see darkness, you see corruption

And when you descend from the heavens above, the orbit.

You may not be a mortal

But the only thing that sets the fallen angels like you apart from the Demons that you fight is that you fight for the freedom of your people

But in the end there are no such thing as angels

yes the muzzle is necessary for that.