#mechaposting

[hemipenal-system]

cuddle the mech pilot you adopted. no, really snuggle her. don’t let her sleep at the foot of your bed. she thinks she doesn’t deserve to curl up with you like a person and will sleep down there huddled up like a dog if you let her. don’t let her. tell her gently but firmly that you want to touch her and that she’s going to get under the blankets with you and you’re going to spoon her

she might cry a bit. pilots aren’t used to that kind of affection. just wipe her tears and tell her you love her and it’s ok for her to cry. and then fall asleep together

[obliviasart]

Mech AI who has an intravenous neurotransmitter monitoring/emergency transfusion system installed to better balance its pilot's combat stim packages and develops a taste for its pilot's blood.

The pilot swears she hears it purring every time she's hooked in and growling every time she's released.

AIs aren't supposed to sound so excited to have their pilots safely entombed in them again.

AIs aren't supposed to insist on keeping such a large sample for "post-combat analytics".

AIs aren't supposed to call their pilots "sweetie". And they're definitely not supposed to call them "morsel".

But the feedback loop in their neuralink with every stim delivered has her howling, almost loud enough to drown out her rabid pulse. She hears her AI singing along to its beat sometimes. She can't be sure it's real or if it's the adrenaline talking. She isn't sure the difference matters.

And who is she to complain if she's a little extra pale and spacey and wobbly every time she slides out, slick with fluids she'd rather not identify? She's hardly a remarkable departure from the other hounds.

And her statistics speak for themselves. The two of them have never been more in sync.

It was so nice of her AI to assign that dietary protein boost directly to her file. Maybe it'll recommend a feeding tube next.

It was so nice of her AI to recommend the new nerve mesh around her analytics port.

She can almost feel Her teeth now.

She can't wait to hear Her sing again.

(crosspost from bsky)

[rosexjustice]

"Pilot, we have been spending a lot of time together. I believe it to be most efficient to bind ourselves further. It is understood to me that you would also receive tax benefits" The mech then gets down on one knee and pulls out a very tiny ring box just for you.

[acerby]

Here Comes The Boy.

[frostfangalphabitch]

The rest of the base has gone to sleep, but you don't sleep anymore. You don't join them in the mess hall anymore, either. You barely eat organic food at all these days, and when you do, it's mainly for pleasure. You can take the organics out of the pilot, but you can't take the love of sweets and pizza out of the organics, you guess. Despite that, you're so far removed from your humanity that it's gotten difficult to relate to most of them. It's not like anyone else is sharing your meals of titanium and copper.

The other pilots look at you with fear and disgust, knowing their inevitable fates if they're ever pitted against you. The mechanics see you as an oddity, a fascination, and heap praise and adoration upon you, but it's hollow in your eyes. It feels more like they're ogling a rare car rather than talking to a pilot. The corps see you as nothing more than a weapon to be pointed at their enemies, or whoever has less money than them that week.

The only person who still respects you as an autonomous individual is your handler. You adore her just as she loves you. Certainly, you're still a weapon - that's what the relationship started as after all - but you think she might be the only human in the base, including the mechanics, who could truly love a weapon of any kind. She's been so good to you through all of this, taking each stage of your radical transformation in stride as naturally as a lover watching her partner go through a more mundane transition. She's only gotten more attracted to you as you've grown into your new form and become more comfortable and confident with yourself. You'd burn the whole world down just to make her happy.

There's one other who respects you for who you are, though: your girl. Your beloved Wolfrun Mk.X, heart of Coral, veins of electricity, and arms of 5 ton power-guzzling metal-shredding AC-devouring WB-0010 Double Trouble carnage. Before all this started, you always thought of her like a weapon, just as the others see you now. Then she started changing you. The Coral in your augments connected with the Coral in her systems, and something changed in both of you. At first, it was just a whisper. Something brushing over your psyche, speaking just on the edge of hearing, incomprehensible but unmistakable.

Then your body started following suit. Your teeth, jaw, and digestive tract were the first things to change, presumably to allow you to consume and digest - you're not even sure if that's the correct term - the materials your girl needed to keep changing you. After your first meal, the tastiest 20 pounds of scrap you've ever eaten, your skin started changing too. The docs couldn't give you injections anymore. Their needles bent or broke when they tried to push them into your skin. You figured out why a few weeks later when what was left of your epidermis sloughed off and revealed armored plating underneath. They had to take an angle grinder to your arm in order to access your veins. You didn't feel any pain when they did. At the time, you thought that should have disturbed you a lot more than it did.

By that point, you'd been noticing Wolfrun's thoughts coming in a little clearer. In transit to your jobs, it was feelings of curiosity, probing, and wonder. In combat, it was a spark in your vision when you needed to dodge, a wordless warning about approaching enemies. In the base... still nothing but a whisper. That's when you started feeling lonely: when you couldn't feel her presence anymore.

As you became more and more monstrous, more and more like her, you began to visit her night after night. Maybe it was because you sensed an intelligence within her 65 ton body, or maybe it was simply because being near her drowned out the silence. You had no way of verifying this, but you felt like she relaxed as well when you were around. She was shut down in the hangar, of course, and there was no way any part of her could still be engaged, or so you thought. But as time went on, the whispers got louder, the words - feelings and thoughts, really - more comprehensible. And all the while, your body changed.

The 5'6" chubby trans gal who went into debt and subsequently under the knife to get a hand-me-down set of 4th gen augments all those years ago is long gone now. The thing you've become, whose claws clanged against the metal of the hangar's floor, had long since cast off that form. Where once was skin had become plated metal. Despite having no screws or rivets to speak of, it stayed firmly in place no matter how much the techs tried to pry it off. The augments which before had stuck partially out of the left side of your skull had seamlessly integrated themselves into the sleek plating that had cropped up on your head, looking far more natural than they ever had before. Your hair had fallen away, and the metal around your skull became angled and sleek, looking more bulwark than biological and with aerodynamic fins sprouting from it.

A sleek black plate had formed where your eyes once were. The day you woke up with that, you thought you had gone blind. You panicked, begging for help, afraid they wouldn't ever let you pilot her again. You had been moved into your new warehouse home at that point, and it took time for the maintenance techs to find you. Before they did, though, you felt someone - your girl, you realized - beckoning to you. She could help you. When the techs finally got there, you begged them to put you in her cockpit. It took them a while to figure out who you meant by "her", but your handler, who had come running the moment she heard the news, was on top of it. She barked at them to get you to Wolfrun, and with great difficulty, the three of them helped you get your then-8 foot form into her. You spent the next week inside her cockpit, refusing to get out except to eat and drink. She was there with you, and she let you see through her eyes. The world as she saw it was far more vivid than human eyes could ever see, infrared, ultraviolet, gamma, magnetic, smells, sounds, vibrations, on top of the visual spectrum you were used to. And when the delicate sensor plate where your eyes once were finally engaged at the end of that week, that's how you saw the world, too.

When you finally left her cockpit, you realized you could still hear her. From then on, she was with you always. That made you happy. It made her happy, too. You started letting her choose her own parts, and she was happy to. She still insisted you choose some too, though, since according to her, it was your body just as much as it was hers. True enough, whatever force was altering your body changed you to match her. When you tried out digitigrade legs, you stumbled getting out of bed the next morning after yours had reconfigured themselves to match. When you got her bulky, high capacity arms, your arms - fully synthetic by then - had bulked up considerably.

Even cosmetic changes started to affect you. You painted menacing, sharp teeth onto her head over the sensor plate with mechanical precision, and you found your own mouth elongating and becoming more of a muzzle as a result. You'd have thought being so malleable would have unsettled you, but you found you were more excited about the possibilities instead. It felt more like becoming who you were meant to be. Besides, it made wolfing down your metal meals easier. You figure intention, either yours or hers, or both, affected how you changed, but no one else had any satisfactory explanation for any of this. You'd stopped caring long ago in any case.

What you and Wolfrun ended up settling on for her, after earning a mountain of COAM for you and your handler with your unbeatable, utterly synchronized performance, was a mid-lightweight build focused on tearing apart the battlefield as quickly as possible with heavy machinery. What you became in response was anything but lightweight, at least compared to the humans around you. The finned bulwark and the black sensor on your head never really changed, but the rest of you seemed plenty mutable. Your arms grew long and powerful, your shoulders tipped with decorative spires. Your waist grew slender, tapering inorganically in nested panels to allow for plenty of articulation. Your torso got wider, too, though for whatever reason, the outline of breasts remained constant on your new chassis. You kept the digitigrade legs. Over time, hydraulic supports seemed to have formed on yours. The snout stayed, too. You were too proud of that paint job to ever take it off even with the changes to your own body. BECAUSE of the changes. You might be more machine than woman at this point, by you're still you, pride and all.

The techs estimate that only about 5% of your body is still organic. Probably most of your brain and maybe some other systems, plus a few symmetrical patches of skin. They suspect that you had either some kind of sympathetic Coral connection to your AC that rearranged your augments and allowed the changes to start, or that somehow repair nanites adapted to your form and began "fixing" you. In any case, they think the bulk of your changes are done with at this point. You're a little disappointed by that. Wolfrun likes the new you, though. She's happy for your connection and to be able to get even closer to you. Your handler appreciates your new form just as much. She doesn't even bat an eyelid when you tell her that you've been talking to Wolfrun. If anything, she seems a little sad that she can't talk to her directly. As for your relationship with your handler, you might be nearly twice her height, standing at a hulking 10 feet tall, but that doesn't stop her from loving you, or from jamming her fingers lovingly between your legs after missions.

But she's sleeping now. It's late, but you're still lonely. There's only one entity up at this time of night you'd care to talk to, so you climb the catwalks to meet her, claws clanging against the metal of the hangar. You smile your toothy, metal smile as she greets you, opening her cockpit so you can crawl inside and be one with her for a few more hours before your next mission.

[puppynametaken]

Mecha kink people where is all your smut hosted? Does it have certain tags I should look for? I’ve seen some pilot/handler stuff and that’s so hot and lovely and the dynamics are incredible. Where the fuck do I find more???

[digitalsymbiote]

Excerpt from "The Dangers of Disconnect Syndrome"

"There is a reason that 8 hours is the maximum recommended time for a pilot to be deployed in the field. The pilot selection process already trends heavily towards individuals with high neuroplasticity, and extended time spent in neural sync only exacerbates this issue.

A pilots brain is molded to maximize efficiency, both through training and chemical cocktails, in order to handle the processing load of actually controlling a mech. IMPs help with this, of course, handling calculations and translating impulses into commands.

However, should a pilot spend more than 8 hours at a time in neural sync, this enhanced neuroplasticity starts to have more dangerous side effects. Past 8 hours, a pilots brain will start to form neural shortcuts to operate more efficiently. Many pilots have reported this to feel like their machines are suddenly running more smoothly, and responding faster to their neural commands.

The drawbacks of this process are not seen until the pilot returns to base and disconnects from their mech, at which point we start to see the typical symptoms of Disconnect syndrome. This is because the pilots brain is bypassing the already built pathways for controlling their actual flesh and blood body in order to more efficiently interface with the neural link. The technology behind the neural link is programmed to translate mental impulses for things like moving limbs or twisting our body into the corresponding commands for a mechanized suit. This translation is obviously not perfect. That's why IMPs exist and are trained on a pilots neural pattern from the moment that pilot enters the program.

After a long enough time in sync, however, a pilots brain learns to bypass that translation altogether and send the distinct input signals required to activate the various parts of their machine. In short, their brain learns to better control the mech by bypassing their own motor functions."

-- Lecture given by Dr. Eva Tyomkin, Head of Neural Research at SHI. Conference for Mechanized Innovation, 2145.

[destiny2paladin]

Pilots that don't handle overstimulation well, and devolve when they're stressed. The handler knows this and forces it every mission. The pilot gets pushed to the edge of overstimulation by the constant data feeds and responsive controls so that the moment a fight starts they get overwhelmed... and lash out. Whatever just took a shot at them has pissed them off and by God they're going to erase it.

Pilots that turn into ruthless hunters that tear through enemy mechs like a child unwrapping a gift for their birthday. The handler watches the feed with smug satisfaction, every threat no more than a smoldering crater by the end. The pilot is drained, exhausted, and utterly spent.

They're pulled from the cockpit with a glassy look, a blank stare. They're fried psychologically, and the handler takes advantage of this. Soft words, gentle reassurance. "You were so brave. I was worried." Lies. The handler wanted a ruthless attack dog, and they turned a loyal hound into a fractured mess to get it.

[faehoundnell]

I want to see a Handler whose in charge of 5 adopted Hound pilots. Get me the Handler who sees the lone wolf, obedient Hound and her domineering Handler and goes, "oh let me introduce you to my girls." And it's just a bunch of happy, tail wagging murder machines who are just the sweetest pilots you've ever met. They form a pack, this tight knit family that cares for each other. Give me happy polycule vibes while these hounds dote and love on their quiet and meek handler. Give me a Handler who is unassuming at first glance, but leads her team of Hounds in missions with such ferocity and success that the higher ups have no choice but accept her request when she sees a recently abandoned pilot receding into their own head and goes, "That one, they're coming home with me."

[patrickbuffman]

Some armored core posting, god I love photo mode I wish every from game had it

Char posting will continue shortly

[corsair-news-alliance]

One day the pilot will die. One day the reaper takes its toll

We tell them they're bulletproof, that stress is a resource. We laugh and joke about how unbreakable our pilots are.

But one day they will die.

One day they'll push the reactor too far. Get in the line of fire just long enough. Not react fast enough.

The pilot will die.

There are three cases.

The mech dies.

The pilot and mech die.

Or just the pilot.

Some say the mech remembers. Some say the pilot remembers the control of the mech.

But every boots on the ground is a risk. A risk we all live with.

//Broadband\\

[hemipenal-system]

Pilot whose mech goes down on the battlefield. they get swarmed by rebels with welders and saws, intent on cutting them out of it, and they just let them.

they get the cockpit open and immediately discover why pilots get titanium teeth and retractable claws implanted when they finish training

Pilot who gets yelled at by their Handler for getting blood all over their jumpsuit

[amy-coolshark]

Been thinking about the concept of mobile suit racing (since I was looking at the hobby hi-zack kit) and it hit me that mobile suit racing in space would be boring af since it would just be a glorified spaceship race, but a mobile suit race on solid ground with parkour obstacles would go hard as fuck.

Think about it: Various mobile suits are built for various purposes, which changes their strengths and weaknesses when it comes to facing certain obstacles, such as walls, ramps, hurdles, mud pits, etc.

Something like a Dom would be more suited for straight line sprints over uneven terrain since it could just hover over everything, but with something like a hurdle or wall in the way (assuming said obstacle is indestructible/immovable) would stop it dead in it's tracks. Similarly, a machine like the Gundam Barbatos would be adept at agility-based challenges, being able to leap and bound over obstacles. Mobile suits with thruster packs like a zaku/gouf type machine could achieve higher jumps using their thrusters, being able to leap over cliffs or perform a slalom-like course by boosting back and forth. a Z'gok would excel in a marine environment, especially one with opportunities to go underwater.

There are a lot more possibilities that I'm not even thinking of right now, but this is something I'd love to explore further.

[weird-homosexual-in-your-area]

Pilot B7C2AD, codenamed "Lovebird", was an interesting case. A neural pilot before the conditioning was perfected, before they were a dime-a-dozen, it was one of only 12 neural-sync-capable pilots in its age. Of course the higher-ups would take an interest in it. Of course they'd watch its every mission with almost fanatical attention, cheering at its every kill, gasping at its every wound, infinitely more emotive than Lovebird itself. Of course they'd give its suit priority for repairs, much to the dismay of the technicians.

Of course they'd notice when it grew resentful of its handler.

Of course they'd be watching as it went against her orders, blankly allowing the enemy to fire on its mech.

Of course they'd have to retrieve it from the wreckage of its mech, sensory input and nervous output wires training behind it like blood from a body.

After the incident, the higher-ups had to respond. They couldn't just kill it like they would with analogue pilots- it was far too valuable, both as training data and as propaganda. So instead they anaesthetised it, plugged it into cerebral analysis and peered into its life before the program, when it was still a person, not an asset.

They found, in fairly recent memory, a woman. A tall brunette, working as a re-educator for the state. With the woman came a voice, came love, came a past of happiness and mutual obsession. With the woman also came an untimely fate at the hands of an enemy pilot landing on her sector. With the woman came not only a burning need for revenge, hotter than any flame a rocket could produce, but longing, bereavement and mourning. Clearly, the analysts said, Lovebird joined the program to get revenge, to get a sense of closure for its late love.

The higher-ups soon instructed the comms team to develop a filter for handler comms, to change the grating voice of an unsympathetic, uncaring monster to a synthetic voice based on a real person- maybe a celebrity, or a fictional icon.

Or a lost loved one, their voice reconstructed through every memory of their voice a pilot has.

After this new filter was implemented, general pilot performance went up 21.3% on average, though Lovebird's performance spiked far higher. Debriefs recorded it as "more passionate", "devoted to the battle", and as "willing to do whatever was requested of it when on a sortie". It became the number 1 asset that the state had. Civilians fled the area when they saw it dropping from the atmosphere, a grim reaper by any other name, to avoid being caught in the crossfire like so many others had been. At base, technicians reported it was often unwilling to leave its cockpit, weeping madly with those unsettling dead eyes signature of neural-linked pilots, screeching until its throat was raw, begging to be put back in, sent back into the field, please, it could handle it, it just wanted to go back out and listen to Ena again, before its screeches devolved to desperate sobs, its sobs to pained whimpers, and its whimpers to resigned silence.

But none of that mattered, as long as results stayed on the up. It had signed up for this, after all.

As time went on, and technology advanced, the conditioning process became more and more consistent, and as such Lovebird began to lose its value as an asset. The higher-ups deemed, after much debate, that "on occasion of its failure on the battlefield, retrieving pilot B7C2AD would be more costly than it would be to train even ten new pilots, and as such, it is to be left to die."

*****

After coming up on two years since its first appearance, the monster nicknamed "Lovebird" for reasons unknown to anyone but the spies in enemy territory finally fell. Surprisingly, no extraction team came for it- it was left for the news teams to interrogate, to find out how it was so strong.

As the camera crew levered off the cockpit door, they were expecting a hardened, determined soldier inside. They were expecting the pilot to be frantically trying to restore power. What they didn't expect was a short, seemingly malnourished woman, eyes red with tears, wailing at the top of her weak lungs for the loss of someone called "Ena". What sense did this make? How was this Lovebird? Surely there'd been a mix-up. This must have been some new girl to the program if she was still attached to people from her previous life.

The camera crew shut off the film with a sincere apology for the mistake to the viewers at home who tuned in to see the removal of the leading soldier of the Stormcell forces from their cockpit. As the cameras stopped rolling, a single gunshot rang out across the wasteland, before fading away, leaving only the disgruntled chatter of the camera team. What a waste of their time.

[acerby]

Mecha Cabin

I think more mecha cockpits should have a built in cabins like some of the fancier semi trucks.

I need that Vanlife lifestyle but in a 100ft robot, now. Please.

[cutsiewitch]

A Mechanic’s Worries about Pilots.

A gifted mechanic is called in to service a pilot. As The Mechanic begins to head towards her station to work on the pilot, she can’t help but ruminate on her feelings about pilots. She honestly doesn’t like them.

It’s not a personal thing, she’s sure that they were great people at one point, but it’s hard to see them like that anymore. She finds the whole thing creepy and offputting. She see’s what they do to pilots, knows how they’re made. She probably understands the process more than anybody on the base. She’s a prodigy in mecha suit engineering, which also includes pilot systems.

It makes her uncomfortable. The pilots are treated like objects, tools of war. That’s what they are too, what they’re made to be. Their skulls are full of tech that hooks them straight into their mechs, their brains fried with dopamine and other kinds of chemical soup to reward them when they shoot targets into slag. They even end up sharing the space in their head with the onboard ai’s of their mechs. They’re locked into the mechanical nerves and metal muscles of the mech. It makes them amazing killing machines, but their minds are practically crippled outside of the suits, raw and untethered, ungrounded.

The weirdest thing to her is they seem so happy. It doesn’t even look like it’s just the chemicals, it can’t be. They like it, whatever fucked up experience they’re having, it’s making them happy as can be. They want to get back into the suits, they want to push more. They like getting bossed around like dogs by their handlers. They love their ai’s almost like some weird fusion of a lover, a sibling, and a reflection. They can barely even articulate how they feel, most don’t bother, but The Mechanic has worked in this business long enough to learn anyways.

She gets to her workshop. It’s honestly kind of pathetic, barely worthy of the name. She knows that the pilots are treated as tools, but mechanics aren’t treated much better. Human but still not really worthy of respect. They work her and the other mechanics like slaves, cramping them into the crawl spaces where stuff needs fixing. Even with her advanced position all they afford her is this broom closet from hell. The room is cramped and humid, like a small metal sauna. It’s still marginally better than the communal workshop. Even with the bigger and more open room it still somehow manages to be claustrophobic and hot.

The Pilot is already there, sitting on her workbench, completely naked. The Mechanic isn’t surprised, but her face still burns with heat as she blushes when seeing The Pilot’s bare ass resting on the same giant hunk of tungsten-steel alloy she uses to fix delicate parts and machinery. The Pilot’s augs are invasive and take up a good portion of its body. Its arms, its legs, and a good portion of its back are more machine than human at this point. Normally the jumpsuits account for this, but those would get in the way of repairs. Normal clothes would too, and developing some kind of modesty cover for them is more trouble than it’s worth for the higher ups. They don’t have to deal with the nudity, and it’s not like the pilots even care.

The Mechanic wipes the sweat from her brow and crosses the room. She doesn’t actually acknowledge The Pilot aside from the blushing, but The Pilot’s gaze follows her as she makes her way over to a box of tools. She sets the box down next to The pilots thigh and pulls over the ratty stool she uses for a chair.

She starts servicing The Pilot. She pulls out delicate tools and with ingrained precision she begins opening up The Pilot’s augs, starting with the legs and going up. She hooks its systems up to an old box of a diagnostics unit and begins manually inspecting the parts. She pulls wires aside with tiny fractions of force and checks on the tiny sensors and servos that are no bigger than her fingernail, cleaning them with tiny swabs and lubricating them with drops of oil.

The entire time she keeps hearing weird noises. Soft whines and sounds of scraping play at the edge of her attention, distracting her just the tiniest amount. The Mechanic can’t tell where the noises are coming from, and it’s bothering the shit out of her. When she takes a step back to unfocus and wipe the sweat from her forehead, she sees where it’s coming from.

It’s the pilot. It’s breathing heavily, like it’s exhausted. Its face is almost as flushed as The Mechanic’s when she walked in. The metal tips of its fingers scratch at the polished surface of her workbench. Jesus fucking christ, was The Pilot turned on right now? With the face it was making it had to be.

Fuck, now The Mechanic was thrown way off. It was already hard enough to try and pretend this was just normal machine servicing when all of the machinery was attached to a sweaty, naked girl, it was impossible to do it when she knew it was getting off to her poking around in its augments.

The Mechanic just couldn’t get back into the same groove she had before. Every stifled moan disrupted her concentration. Every squirm messed up her precise motions. Everything just kept bringing her back into the moment, where her face was inches away from the pilot’s crotch.

The Mechanic slogged through the rest of the grueling work, doing her best to try and travel into that little place in the back of her mind where she could just stop thinking and do what she was good at. She finished with the legs and then told the pilot directly to lay down so she could begin on her arms.

The Pilot laid down like it was told. The Mechanic scooted her stool forward and raised the seat for a better vantage. In the end the new position wasn’t all that much better than the old. The Pilot’s left arm was cradled on The Mechanic’s lap while she popped it open and began working on it.

It was more of the same. Nothing wrong but basic cleanup, which meant The Mechanic wouldn’t be busy enough to zone out. She could see its face clearly now. It looked so human, so lively. When she pressed a sensor its hand tensed and squirmed, pushing against her stomach a bit. A tugged wire elicited a slight yip of surprise. It felt so carnal, to dig into this things innards and just mess around.

Seeing it like this, The Mechanic couldn’t help but wonder about the difference between the two. Right now it looked just as human as she was, so she couldn’t apply the same cold business mentality she usually did with her work. She felt like they were almost one in the same. I mean, look at it, being a pilot can’t be so bad, right?

The Mechanic’s thoughts ground to a halt. Her surprise was so sudden it caused her to tweak a wire hard enough to get The Pilot to let out a proper yelp. Neither could tell if it was a yelp of pleasure or pain.

What had she just thought? Seriously, what the hell was that? Was she serious? Of course being a pilot is bad, being treated like a mindless dog, worked like a machine, and used like a toy. The Mechanic barely knew where that thought had even come from. I mean, it and her were nothing alike.

The Mechanic stewed in those thoughts, trying to reassure herself that she was nothing like it. She wasn’t an it. The Mechanic was a person, and it was just a pilot. The Mechanic tried her best to just focus on the work, but she couldn’t. The thoughts bothered her so much, and she really couldn’t dismiss them.

Because they were alike, very much alike. Not in the sense that The Pilot was a person. In the sense that The Mechanic wasn’t.

The Mechanic couldn’t help but feel it. She was a cog in a much larger machine, a tiny piece. She was treated almost the same as The Pilot

The Mechanic was worked like a dog. She was given shit conditions and forced to do shittier things. She was expendable, one in a million. You could point to almost any outward aspect of the two of them and they would match up.

The thing that frustrated The Mechanic even more was how they were the same on the inside too.

The Mechanic knew what it felt like to become something bigger. Working in the engineering wing was like being in a hive mind. You’re practically shoulder to shoulder with the people next to you. You become parts of the same whole, you work together, you sweat together, you create together. She can’t even remember how many times she had needed something, a part, a tool, a towel, anything, and a mechanic next to her had just known, and given it to her. She knew she had done the same for others all the time.

She could admit to feeling like an it sometimes. Stripped of your identity, down to everything but your use. She didn’t know The Pilot’s name, and The Pilot probably didn’t know her’s. She was a mechanic. She was nothing but the job she did. A function, not a person.

Her head pounded as she adjusted her grip on The Pilot’s arm. Her head buzzed and it felt like her brain was melting in the heat of the room. She could imagine the wires burning up and melting their rubber casings. The copper and metal fusing together into a frenzied mess as her thoughts jumbled into each other.

She shook her head violently. God she was losing it! Her brain wasn’t made of wires, it was made of meat! She wasn’t overheating, she was just getting some kind of headache. She closed up the first arm, not even sure if she was really done, and told the pilot to swap sides through gritted teeth.

She wanted things to be simpler. She wanted to stop thinking. She just wanted to do her job. The Mechanic missed the engineering floor. She missed the absent thrum as she worked alongside her fellow workers, their thoughts synchronizing into a beautiful and productive symphony. She wanted to be a part of that, of it. She just wanted to be a Mechanic, that was so much easier than all of this.

Is that why pilot’s are so happy? Are they so content because that’s what it feels like? The Mechanic thought about it in her own terms. Would she give up her body to work more efficiently? Would she open up her mind, just to be even closer with the other mechanics? Would she shed all of the cumbersome weight that thinking like a person had, and just become a simple and unbothered it?

The answer was yes. The Mechanic wanted that. The simple, pure existence of it. The Mechanic wanted to be that, and nothing more. When it realized that, it had a much easier time working on The Pilot’s arm.

It finished up The Pilot’s back in no time too. Without all of the messy thoughts clogging up its head, the whole thing went smoothly. The Pilot was sent on her way, on wobbly legs and with shaky breath. The Mechanic might have messed with it a bit more than necessary, but it liked to consider that a reward, for good behavior.

The Mechanic realized it wanted a bit of a career shift. It thought that if being a mechanic was good, then being a pilot must be great! It loved working on machines, but it wanted that sense of empty completion even more. Plus, it’s not like it won’t be allowed to also do mechanic work still. It would be a lot better for everyone if it got to service its own mech. It would be a win win. The Mechanic wiped down its workbench for the last time, and with renewed vigor, went to sign up to become a pilot.