#handler

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.

The General-rank Handler stares with disbelief at her underlings as they try to explain how the basis of her command structure actually looks like.

"I didn't know! I point places on a map and things happen!"

They hand her the handlerbook.

Over time she grows more and more distressed when outside her mech though. Her limbs don't feel quite correct anymore, her eyes see the world in strange and unnatural ways. It's wrong and weird and she spends more and more time in her mech, just sitting inside the cockpit feeling comfortable in her correct body.

Her beloved handler notices of course, and brings her in for more and more body modifications to correct what feels so wrong. Better eyes, multiple new arms, just more and more to make her feel better.

those spies are just too darn clever...

there is no universe in which there exists a Handler that is not a massive fucking loser.

it is not possible.

Smith-Shimano Corporation

Violence is an art and anyone can be an artist. Using this pedestrian-level analogy, you can get a pretty good idea of how a Smith-Shimano Handler will treat you. They will tell you that you have potential. Acquire enough real combat experience and hours in repeated simulations and you could rise from a mere practitioner to a virtuoso. One who decides the tempo of battle and the trends of war. But let's not get too far ahead. You will need unfaultering discipline to address the flaws, both blatant and obscured, within you. And only your SSC Handler can give you that.

Harrison Armory

On paper you almost look like a good investment. You've exhibited some interesting behavior on and off the battlefield. You test well with key target demographics that the Armory is engaging with. ... Look, this is about what your Armory Handler is going to do for you. They are going to get you the mercenary contracts that will make you look heroic. Then they are going to put you in front of omninet cameras that will make you seem relatable. Between the PR and military campaigns, you'll become a figurehead, with depth. And if you fuck that up... well it depends on the severity.

IPS-N

Whatever you need to operate in a war fighting capacity, your InterPlanetaryShipping-Northstar Handler will do their best to provide. They've done and seen it all, not much frightens them. Got some mental problems? They set you up an appointment with Jimmy, he's a licensed therapist and psychiatrist, good listener, straight talker. Weird tech issues with your mech? This is Jill, she's good with hardware, software, and even paracausal materials. A date? Sorry that's a violation of professional standards. However you are invited to your Handler's family friday evening potluck. Don't die on the battlefield until you've had their synth-printed carne asada, that's an order.

H0RUS