#let my girl go party don't overwork this is child labour smh

[locria-writes]

untitled pt. 6/?

general notes -- big killer robots go pew pew

25 March, 2X52

Drowning out the buzz of activity around her, Symphora switched to lying down on the bench instead of sitting, and lazily swung her dangling legs in an absentminded self-soothing gesture. She sat in the room overlooking the hangar where pilots were to wait before deployment, and while she was no real pilot, and she certainly was not being deployed, she was supposed to wait for her father to come back from whatever meeting he was in with further instructions.

The week leading up to this had been nothing but headache-inducing. It was midterm season, and as expected, the workload was borderline cruel and inhumane, yet her father had still dragged her out to Lemures as soon as she handed in her last exam. While all her peers were relaxing and partying (at Januaria’s birthday, no less), she was stuck out in what could feasibly be called the boonies of Concordia to do more work.

While she could understand that she had an obligation to this as both the heir to S-V Industries and as a member of the Antevorte Foundation, what she didn’t understand was why she was the only one of her cohort here. As far as she understood, none of the other eleven members would be participating in this trip – Elliot was for sure staying on Caelus One since he found work as a tutor for younger students over the break; Regulus was a little less certain, but seeing how he made no dramatic show of bemoaning the cruel fate of being forced to spend time with her, it seemed fairly certain that he was also staying on Caelus or going to visit extended family on Aeternitas or Mater Matuta; the other nine were all older and attending lyceum, which was still in session, so it was doubtful any of them were going to show up on Lemures.

So she stared resentfully at the giant feat of engineering through the glass – the Proto-Decio stood at 15.85 metres in all its new and unused glory. Well, to call it completely unused was a lie, since nine hours earlier, she had sat in its cockpit to adjust its settings to her liking. All her father had told her was to get it comfortable, and that today they would be testing it outside the colony, but he gave no specifics. She figured it was probably weapons-related, since most movement and coordination tests could be done on Lemures itself, while weapons, even at their lowest settings, were far too destructive.

“I have to admit, when I read your file, I thought you only excelled in theory and simulations, Miss Sun.”

She nearly fell off the bench trying to assume a more dignified position, but managed to quickly pull herself up to salute Lieutenant Cantrell. Symphora, while someone who had neither low self-esteem nor deep insecurities, was acutely aware of her unbecoming appearance. Her hair was probably a mess, since she had just haphazardly tied it into a ponytail, and seeing how quickly she had moved her head, was probably sticking up from the low gravity. She still had dark circles under her eyes from the multiple all-nighters she pulled while studying, and worse yet, she wore no makeup to cover it. The only saving grace, which was little more than a double-edged sword, was that the spacesuit for pilots was thankfully slim and somewhat decent-looking (the white and grey scheme suited her complexion very well), but unfortunately, her figure, or lack thereof, made it rather unflattering (to be fair, the spacesuits were function over form, and designed for adults, not pubescent children).

“Lieutenant Cantrell…! Um…I didn’t know you were here too…”

“The Vice Marshal invited me.” He glanced over at the Proto-Decio, then back at her. “Are you sure you don’t have a rank? It feels strange to call you ‘Miss Sun’ when you’re a test pilot.”

“That’s probably the second-highest rank there is in Lemures, to be honest.” After all, Lemures was de facto owned by the Sun family, and their authority superseded even that of the Concordian government at times.

“Fair enough. I guess you’ll just get double-promoted after finishing lyceum and start off as a lieutenant instead of an ensign.”

“Maybe…” She said nothing about how only the dead were double-promoted.

“How many models have you piloted?”

“Like…actually piloted in space, or just in general?”

“Whichever answer is more interesting.”

She took a moment to sincerely deliberate. “Rudis, Veles, Cestus for Venators…. Neo-Caelus and Aita for Mercury Frames…I think.”

A strange expression, a mix of disgust and astonishment, crossed his face for just a second, before reverting back to his usual friendly smile. “You must have started young to have such an impressive resume. I was under the impression that you only trained with the Antevorte Foundation, but I guess that was silly of me.”

The base of her skull throbbed slightly, and she couldn’t help but raise a hand to touch the neural implant there. It was a necessary procedure to get in order to pilot modern Mercury Frames, and while most received it no later than at twelve years old, she had gotten hers at ten, courtesy of her father. Every so often, it would hurt and ache, but it was a kind of psychosomatic pain, apparently.

She mulled for a decent reply, finding the silence uncomfortable, but thankfully, there was no need because her father came in, flanked by Abraham and one of the vaguely-familiar military doctors who always hung around Lemures. It always took her a second to register how different her father and Abraham looked when donned in the pomp of Concordian service dress – knee-length navy-blue tunics, matching slacks, tall polished jackboots, and stiff peaked caps sitting on their heads. There were differences, of course, since her father held the rank of vice marshal, and Abraham was shockingly a lieutenant commander. The former’s uniform was embroidered in ostentatious gold thread, and wore epaulettes, while the latter’s shoulders were bare, and wore silver thread instead.

Symphora might have had complicated feelings regarding the military, but she absolutely appreciated the style of it all, and it would almost be enough to sway her feelings into the positive.

“Syma, it’s about time for you to begin.” Her father’s voice was nonchalant, like she was just about to recite a poem, rather than sit in a giant hulking death machine.

With a gesture from her father (and a wary look from Abraham), the doctor shuffled forward, handing her a bottle of water and a container of various pills. She had never worked up the courage to ask what exactly she was taking, and always swallowed them obediently. There was a quiet and persistent fear in the back of her mind whenever she had to do this, but it was stifled by the thought that even her father, as callous as he was, wouldn’t actively harm her.

So like always, she took the pills, with four pairs of eyes boring down at her, and felt the pain in her neck intensify.