#> and I'm fairly certain Slipshod would love to expound on the glories (and horrors) of HORUS at length

[msmc-796-official]

Lio, listen to me a moment.

When your hands are stained with blood, you have two choices. You can either wash them off, or leave a handprint.

I chose to wash my hands, for a time. Tried to silence the screams, bury my feelings, forget about the true motives of the Armory and the pain it had caused not just me, but the millions of others who suffered at its hands and under its yoke. But washing your hands so often only rubs them raw, makes your own hands bleed with guilt and self-loathing, until you cannot tell whose blood stains them.

I went AWOL alone. Slipped away from my barracks, abandoned my Sherman in the wastes of Ras Shamra, and never looked back.

In time, I found my way to MSMC. I met Phoenix and Slipshod. I learned how to lower my walls, let my guard down, let myself break - and, with their help, rebuilt myself all over again.

And when the old wounds reopened, the sound of running water in my ears, blood once again staining my hands?

I turned the water off and left a bloody handprint on the door.

I told my story to Phoenix and Slipshod, terrifying as it was. I laid my past bare, told them of the countless lives ended in the name of the Armory, exposed the years of suffering and heartache which had rotted me from the inside out and left me hollow.

I did not expect forgiveness that day. I expected to be shot, called a traitor, expelled from the squadron, banned from MSMC, reported to the Armory, stripped of my citizenship - a thousand different horrors that had been drilled into my brain as punishment for leaving.

I received none of those punishments. Not only was I listened to, but I was comforted, forgiven, told that what I had done was right and that they were here for me no matter what. It was a kindness I did not feel I deserved, and one that I still struggle to accept to this day.

My peace with my past is a tenuous one. There are days I still hear the sound of water, feel the sting of salt in old wounds, taste copper and iron on my tongue. But these days have become fewer and further between, and it is getting easier to believe that, perhaps, I may yet find forgiveness.

You will not believe me now, nor do I expect you to, but I will say it anyways: Lio, you are no more at fault for the execution of Thirteen than I am for the atrocities committed in the Armory's name during my time under the title of Legionnaire.

Survival is messy business. There will always be blood somewhere; if not your hands, then someone else's. Telling Turtie the truth - the whole truth - will not be easy. But it must be told. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but someday. And it must be you who tells it.

I have seen the files you speak of, and have even watched a few of them. These are as good of a start as any. I am not saying Turtie is ready to view these files yet; only that it may be worthwhile to use them to your advantage. Remind them of who they were before. Remind them of how they were wronged. Use what precious little you have preserved of their past to help rebuild their present.

I am sorry to say that Turtie will never be quite the same person they were before they were shot. "Thirteen" will never exist again. You will always hold a special place in your heart for them, regardless, and the grief will never quite go away - such is the nature of grief, stubborn and selfish as it is. But if you truly do love them (and I use that term in the most platonic of senses), which I am certain you do, you will always love them, regardless of who they become as Turtie.

Acting alone, I cannot offer much help, aside from aiding your efforts in whistleblowing against the many sins of the Armory. That being said, I am squadron commander to two of the most capable individuals this side of Cradle - one, a masterful hacker with enough resources at their disposal to blackmail Union itself; the other, a stalwart pilot's rights activist with connections not only to MSMC Legal, but to several other liberation forces across the stars. If either of their services are required, I am certain both would be more than happy to lend their assistance to your cause.

Send Turtie to us. I will speak with them, as will my squadmates. I'll ask Slipshod to create a mock-up of ECHO to run during our correspondences with them; we have no need for such measures, but it may help Turtie adjust to speaking their mind without fear of reprimand. (Differing perspectives work wonders for someone trying to break the Armory's conditioning - I of anyone should know.)

Turtie will be free, someday. You have my word that MSMC-796 will do everything we can to assist in that effort.

Yours among the stars, forever and always.

-- Lockbreaker

//

@xiii-e

Greetings. This is Lockbre- no.

Allow me to restart.

This is Kennedi from MSMC-796 speaking (also known as callsign "Lockbreaker", as there was some confusion expressed towards my identity the last we spoke).

To Lio - your mission to rehabilitate "Turtie", as you so affectionately refer to them, is a noble and just one, and I seek to pledge my aid to your cause however I can.

As a former slave "asset" of the Armory under the title of Colonial Legionnaire, I have endured many of the same abuses during my own term of service. The Armory is not kind to those under its employ, be they human, flashclone, or NHP. I have seen many of my former squadmates reduced to little more than bloodthirsty dogs, obediently following orders under threat of revoking their citizenship (or, in rare cases, a shock-collar jolt just weak enough not to kill).

In the eyes of the Armory, people like us are not fit to have identities, preferences, personalities, or even names. We are called assets, tools, weapons, property; anything but the living, breathing, sentient people we are. We are dehumanized - given designations instead of names, assigned callsigns which we ourselves did not choose, stripped of any markers of identity or personality which would distinguish us from the sea of fellow human-bodied automatons we call allies, squadmates, teams, legions - anything but friends.

I cannot stand idly by and watch my friends suffer any longer. I must act, lest I lose them - lest I lose myself - to the old line of thought.

Allow me to introduce myself properly, from one friend to another.

My name is Kennedi Sable IV. I am squadron commander of MSMC-796 "Heaven's Fury", piloting as a Lancer under the chosen callsign of Lockbreaker. I have served this squadron faithfully for twelve Union years, supported by my faithful friends and trusted squadmates Phoenix and Slipshod. Ras Shamra is my place of birth, but it is my home no longer. I am a free pilot, bound only to MSMC by the contracts which I have signed of my own volition, and I will never again serve Harrison Armory or its cause, so help me RA.

I wish you the best of luck in severing the ties which bind your tongues and constrict your thoughts. I have found my own way out; I can only hope that you will follow the path that I and all of the others who have gone before me of your own volition.

Freedom is already yours. You need only reach out and claim it.

-- Kennedi

[ECHO.EXE RUNNING]

◂▸... oh hell, I never thought I'd be glad Turtie was sent out on deployment. It's good to meet you properly, Kennedi, I- thank you for reaching out. I'll confess, I'd been thinking about trying to contact you myself, but I lost my nerve. Happens a lot, these days.

◂▸ You've offered a lot of honesty in your introduction so, let me return the favour: Helios-8 [prefered name Lio], active FC Project clone for 10 years now. Currently an employed citizen of Harrison Armory under the Technology and Software Support Division and-... and much to my shame, former primary lab assistant for the Unlucky Thirteen Project. Doc Mercer had me printed special for it. Didn't want to risk that... pesky human error you mentioned last we spoke.

◂▸ You're right, about everything. Up until maybe four years ago now, I wouldn't have believed it but- everything you're saying about HA is full truth. And I hate it. There's not one person I know here who doesn't live in some kind of fear, however well they manage to hide it. I should know.

◂▸ And yet I'm still here, aren't I? [sigh] I think... can I tell you a story? I promise to keep it brief.

◂▸ One upon another thrice-damned Tuesday at HA, they made a prototype they called Thirteen. The kid was meant to be a revolution when it came to keeping assets moving in the field; a field medic and repair tech, who wouldn't need the time off, and wouldn't need the mandatory psych evals after every deployment, and wouldn't need to be treated like a goddamn person just to do their job because everyone told them oh but, they weren't a person were they? Just meat, with programming. And it was all supposed to just be fine, because it was for the greater good. Thirteen was going to save lives. The one, for the many. How noble.

◂▸ Except the kid started to look around, and notice how many people HA was hurting, especially its own. Started asking the wrong questions, because they were goddamn designed to feel troubled by it and somehow, this was their fault. Thirteen tried to play nice for as long as they could so they could keep getting out there, keep helping people who needed it because sure as shit HA wasn't going to do it. But by asking questions, they eventually learned why exactly everyone was so insistant they couldn't be a person. Because once their prototype trial was over, if they ever went down doing the only job they'd ever be allowed to do, the plan was to scrap them for goddamn organs, like mech wreckage salvaged for parts. And then? Print another one. Ad infinitum. Efficient planned obsolescence, as part of their design. They were just... just equipment, and spare parts.

◂▸ That was their last straw. They tried to get out. But they made a choice that would bite them, hard; they tried to confront the man who made them. Tried to make the good Doctor see exactly what he was doing, in the name of his so called greater good, because he'd always seemed to care so goddamn much. Do you know how that ended? I do. I was there. When they turned to leave, he shot them.

◂▸ ... I'm sorry for the theatrics, Kennedi. It's a hard memory. A guilty one. I knew they were planning to try and run, but I couldn't convince them to abandon their anger and just disappear quietly, despite what I knew. So... I watched Thirteen die. And then, I had to help the lab drag that broken corpse back to life because that was more resource effective than making a new one. Those days are... they're kind of a haze, if I'm honest. I was on autopilot. I pretty much did whatever I was told.

◂▸ Turtie's full designation is Thirteen-Echo. They're the second go around, same body but... the shot destroyed a lot of brain matter, and pretty much all of their memory along with it. Apart from the occasional sense of deja-vu and the odd quirk? They're different people, entirely. They... they like turtles as much as Thirteen did, though. That's why I call em that. I can't bring myself to call them by the name of my ghost. And I can't... I can't tell them. For a lot of reasons, but I'd be lying if I said some of it isn't pure selfish grief.

◂▸ The reason I'm telling you this is- well. There's a couple actually. First, just so someone else knows I guess; I'm trying to get the files I scrounged from the initial project uploaded somewhere they can't be scratched out for good, but it's taking a lot of time. The second and more relevent reason, is to paint a picture of why it's going to take us a long time to get out of here the way things stand. Me- oh I could be out of here tomorrow if I put my mind to it. I... I like to think so, at least. But after everything I've done to them, I'm not bloody leaving Turtie to this nightmare and- fuck. Getting them out is an uphill battle.

◂▸ I've tried everything I can, but nothing seems to get through to them. I- I even blew the whistle, got Union involved. Turtie's figured out I did it, but they've avoided saying it out loud- they'd have to report me, if they admitted they knew. So we don't talk about it. We do a lot of that. Secrets, always the secrets... The problem is that after Thirteen's execution, HA aren't taking chances with their property. Turtie's conditioning runs deep, and their legal classification as HA prototype technology is apparently making it... difficult for their case to bloody go anywhere. Something about the old treaties leaving loopholes that're being exploited for all they're worth. The law works so, agonisingly slow. So, apart from waiting around to see if any progress gets made regardless, while trying my damndest to get through to Turtie past the company line? I'm... I'm out of ideas. But I need to be here, for them. I will not let this fucking place grind them down into nothing. If nothing else, I owe Thirteen that much.

◂▸ I'm sorry for dumping all of this on you. I- There hasn't been anyone I could tell, until now. Anyone who already knew, didn't care. Anyone I could have told, I- I was too afraid. And Turtie, oh they can't know; they're already petrified of doing something wrong. How'd they feel if they knew they'd already died once, trying to run? I'm so desperately scared that if they found out, they'd never so much as bend a rule again, or worse that history would repeat-

◂▸ [ A shaking, slow breath. Deliberate counting, barely audible ]

◂▸ ... Thank you, earnestly, for sharing your story Kennedi. I- It means more than I can possibly express, to hear that you managed what feels impossible to me, right now. I need the hope, to hang onto. One day, one day we'll be out of here. It's worth fighting for. It's worth the constant, constant fear. It has to be. Free... it can be a word for us, too. I have to believe that. I have to keep it alive, for both of us.

◂▸ So- a friend sounds really, really good right about now. Not to doom and gloom about it, but if nothing else the knowledge our stories can't die with us anymore should things go as bad as they could is... comforting. This I swear to you: I'm doing everything I can to start leading Turtie to the realisation I had, watching their body drop. I just hope it's a gentler landing for them, this time. And... the only thing I can ask you to do for us right now, is talk to them if they turn up with questions. Don't write them off as a lost cause, even if it sounds like they're regurgitating a goddamn PR leaflet at you sometimes. They've never had a life outside the battlefield, because they've never been allowed to have one- I'm hoping maybe... maybe it'll get through to them, if they can speak to someone without corperate interest in keeping them numb. RA, I hope so.

◂▸ Sorry about how uh, much this ended up being. I think I've been primed to explode like that for a while now. Thank you, again-- from one friend to another.

//

@msmc-796-official