It can feel it. Handler, the girls in Infantry, the mechanics. Sweet stares as it's lead through the hangar. Propaganda posters dotting the hallways. The feeling of Handler's teeth on it's neck. They all adore it.
It feels so wrong. The one lesson Handler can't seem to make stick. Even She can't make it love itself. But how could it love this body. It grows weaker each day, a side effect of piloting. It burns away it's very essence. How is it's suffering beautiful.
The only beauty in it's life is Sisyphus. No one else could understand the splendor of being one with a titan of steel and fire. It is a privilege to lose it's humanity. Not a person, just a weapon. Leaving feels like falling from heaven. Power and Divinity slipping through my fingers as easily as the wires snake out of me and back to my better half.
It likes to think that it leaves a part of itself in Sisyphus each time they part. That the ever increasing agony is for a point. That one day they'll open up the cockpit to see nothing there. That they'll finally be able to truly be together. Hope can be cruel to a Hound.
It worsens. It wants to tear at the skin beneath it's flightsuit. It wants to claw and scrape and bleed till the pain stops. It loses itself to the encroaching fog. The pain is never ending. It can't enjoy piloting anymore. Everything dulls. It can't tell Handler about this. It lost speaking privileges weeks ago. Not that She would care anyways. It's performance hasn't dropped.
It feels hollowed out. Handler and medbay know it doesn't have much time left. They all stare at it like a sick dog. It dreams of Sisyphus every night. Handler has been gentler. It was her first. It's legs gave out. It cried for the first time in a long time. It wishes for death.
It writhes on the floor like a bug. It has just enough thought left to realize it has fallen off it's chair, and it is dying. It's heart wants to burst from its chest. It can't stop shaking. It silently suffers, staring up at the dull glow of the fluorescent lights. It's gaze fixated as the room is filled with motion. People rush into the room. Faces blur as it begins to lose consciousness. Alarms blare and words fall on deaf ears. It is lifted into the air, and it may finally rest.
[------------------------------]
It awakens to a bed, and a woman watching over it. But, it realizes with a start, not the same bed. And very much not the same woman. She notices it's gaze, and springs to life.
“Marilyn!! Fuck! God fuck! Mary!!”
She's hugging it now. It hurts.
“We all thought you were dead! I was so scared, I'm so sorry for everything.”
She hugs tighter. It hopes it can be back inside Sisyphus soon. It hurts so much.
“God Marilyn… what did they do to you…”
*She traces the scar running across it's neck.*
It notices other people in the room. None of the crisp uniforms of the Imperials. Of Handler. They look at it like they know it. Like they know…
Oh. It understands. They all think it's beautiful too.
