#meli-val.xml

[meli-writes]

mech pilot whose conditioning makes them feel painfully obligated to do what everyone tells them. handlers have to keep them isolated, to maintain the illusion of control. but anyone just needs the pilot's ear. once there's options, they have choices.

because it's not a gun-to-the-head, that's not... economical to produce, comes with too many psychological defects. instead it's that they just don't own their own executive function and know it.

rebels know it too. and a few are bleeding hearts enough to risk cracking open a cockpit and just saying "stop." and after have to learn that even posing things as questions, ones like, "do you wanna cuddle?", are still mentally costly to rgh fefuse.

options. it's any options. "or do you wanna sit with me?" so they can say in return "i'd like to be alone for a while, but later". options that include hope, hope that there's a way out. that there's one where it'll all get better.

then maybe one day they can pick it.

[meli-writes]

no no, i simply must attest the untruth of this one. i have intercepted six out of who-knows-how-many sordid, ingratious letters to my mistress now.

stop sending them. this mistress is mine. find your own.

P.S also i do not think i can bear killing another pigeon. please at least send a runner next time. that would be more tolerable.

whats it like to be a knave lol

i'm literally a pure & chaste maiden of decorous conduct and impeccable manners, you motherfucker

[meli-writes]

defeated villainess who begs to be broken, to be used. because she spent too many years desperately fighting to put everyone else between her and her fear of being weak again.

and now she has to be. and it's too-- it's too much.

[meli-writes]

okay fine yes, you can take the enemy mech pilot to the on-station bar for shoreleave-- no do not call it a 'date' and--

hey! *snaps fingers* look, she has to wear a tracking collar while you're gone and you need to warn her it'll shock her if she tries to run, okay?

what do you mean 'is there a manual for the shock function?'

[meli-writes]

"none of the trainee monster hunters want to fail to properly hunt a vampire mistress and become her thrall anymore. it's all 'fail to hunt a werewolf and become her breeding bitch' and 'hunt a slime and get addicted to being cum harvested' or 'become an incubator for a dragons clutch'. no class at all," i say impudently, before getting lost inside the mansion again and having to waggle my bell collar and cry till mistress finds me.

[meli-writes]

vampire mistress who keeps her mansion dark but for the dim fireplace by which she resides. keeps the rooms cold but for the blankets at her feet and the sheets under which she falsely slumbers. keeps the corridors winding into new and bewildering routes, that lead you nowhere but back to her. who keeps her cabinets and door handles just a little too high to comfortably reach. who collars you with a ringing charm that lets her all her monstrous servants get just close enough that you can see them peering at you hungrily in the darkness. who makes all the furniture just a little too uncomfortable and unwelcoming.

all so curling up at her knees and begging for a soothing hand on your head becomes merely the most natural thing to do. and appears natural to her, so you never even realise every single step of this was planned to leave you the perfect, helpless, needy pet you are.

[meli-writes]

becoming the evil advisor to the princess and whispering devious plots in her ear, till she's filled her vaults with the stolen wealth of the kingdom and sent all those pious, honourable friends of hers to far-off lands to die. till it's all ready for me to steal out from under her, though perhaps if i plot a moment longer, so that my lips might touch upon more than her mind and--

oh. oh. it appears i've corrupted her so thoroughly she's had me locked in the dungeons and plans to reward me for showing her the true power of evil by keeping me leashed to the throne as a concubine. aaand it seems she's whispering in my ear about how-- yes, just how much more comfy it is down here anyway. and y'know mistress makes such a good point, she's always known what's best.

[meli-writes]

you should impregnate your mech rival. it's actually a really economical way to cut out competition in the private sector. like, y'know, capture her in battle, have unprotected hate-sex, and leave her unable to fit in her mech for 6-9 months.

is she trans? buy that girl a breeding implant, cos our accountant says even with that and her "mooching off of me" that projected costs are down 16% without the repair bills from dealing with this bitch's obsession with taking OPFOR contracts.

wonder if after this i can chain another one in her. that is, if she even wants to leave.

[meli-writes]

all those priests giving out 'princess impaled on the sword of her lover to save the kingdom' prophecies been real quiet since the order of knight protectors started admitting big dick trans girls to their ranks. what's up with that hmm?

[meli-writes]

concubines who upon induction realise their mistress has one, incredibly-specific type. the shape of your face, colour of your hair, the piercings in your skin and where you've placed tattoos. the sound from your lips if you all make sure to just giggle and moan.

you're the same -- if you blink a little, don't stare too deep.

and she loves you all dearly. affection spills from her, she spoils you, lets you love your fellow pets. esp if it's while she's using you.

and she calls you all the same name, though it never belonged to anyone here. you're not disposable, no. it's a blessing to count. but you are... interchangeable.

[meli-writes]

tether

a ruined mech sprawled over two skyscraper-tops, sinking into the powdered bricks, its heart open from pilot ejection.

no one is on the end of the tether that has spilled out.

she fell. too fast. thought she was on solid ground. didn't think to look. or couldn't -- cams down, gunport jammed. or thought she could catch something.

her intracranial connector -- the regulated wound at the base of her skull, that coils irretrievably inside of her -- isn't delicate.

when force is applied it won't be the point of failure.

and so, most of it is still there, along with a bloody bulb of brain-mass and fizzing wire-ends. the rest of the mech's wetware left hollowed out for the 9.5s it would have been before she was pulverised on the street below.

at least there's no mess to wash out of the cockpit. clean to salvage when a dropship can pass by. all the techs have to do is splice on a new connector and plug it into the next one.meli-val.txt

dogs can salvage the rest.

[meli-writes]

witchlings who hide from apprenticeship for as long as possible because the covens that were once communities are now pyramid schemes. because the witches who rule their worlds aren't the chosen conduits of magical essence they are, but rather the other ones, the empty vessels, who realised -- centuries ago -- that to be a conduit isn't to be powerful. it's to be a resource.

up and up that essence is siphoned. middle-witches who slipped in before it all stagnated, hunting those with potential, turning those without into the dolls that will catch more -- lest they're turned into one too. pipeline managers for endlessly accumulated fuel. all for a gerontocratic elite that never stopped the arms race that got them here, because the only thing they fear more than each other is one little witchling slipping through their grasp to find one last unhoarded, unburned tome and learning enough to challenge them.

but you didn't -- did you little witchling? you tried. i'll give you that. but it only showed how much of you there is to consume. you're lucky, you shan't be squandered and distributed to the squabbling runts. you'll remain right here, the weight of chains softened on pillows. perhaps you'll even find something between your legs, on your lips, from time to time. it's all mine to take, and i will take it. do you feel those chains working now? weakness is but a first symptom, the disorientation will come next. i look forward to the devotion, and can only hope you'll last a few decades longer than the last one did.

[meli-writes]

blackmailing the enemy mech pilot with the sweetest custom rig that's nearly cored you like two dozen times to be the technician on your rig by letting her sleep in your quarters rather than being sent off to the pow camp. and oh wouldn't it be so bad if the monitoring collar and leash at night appealed to the freak side she's terrible at hiding and the cuddles turned to sex and she didn't want to leave and i got to have the most hot-red mech in the entire militia. so, so bad of me.

don't tell her even the camp is better than regular, imperial bunks. her spite will still override her sleepy girl side at this stage.

[meli-writes]

princess who keeps escaping the palace complex to see how far she can get before her knight-protector tracks her down. spending all the trip back tempting her knight to fuck her, and to run away with her, to not much success.

that is till she manages to get 3 planetary systems away timed to a once in a lifetime cosmic storm, and learning that 3 weeks in to a 3 month journey is about her knight's limits before she finally use's knightly strap to quiet her, unable to ask her second question.

the hushed-up scandal of it resulting in a quickly-arranged marriage, and a fiercely guarded princess with no chance to escape. until, quite strangely, a mistake on the knight-protector's rota gives the perfect opportunity to run. there's even a ship ready in the royal hangar.

i'm sure our loyal knight-protector will bring her home to her new husband any day now.

[meli-writes]

clipped wings

cashing out with his mech's ammo bins full of stolen empire payroll. running through a series of prearranged drop-offs and paid-off contacts, lightening the load as he puts as much as distance as he can with his former masters. at last, near empty-handed, he reaches the surgeon.

everything's getting changed anyway, but can the piloting implants go first? doesn't matter what they look like, they'll be recognised instantly with those. every damn component is itemised.

no, the surgeon tells them. it has to start with the chest, with the tits fucked up from binding to hide the effects of smuggled hormones.

can't the wrist docklets be removed? they're quick. no, the surgeon tells them. vitals are being monitored through them, and the neovagina comes next, and it needs time to boot and have it connections checked.

not even the kill count on their neck? that's not an implant, it's a mark of-- no, the surgeon says. it's superficial, and the anaesthetic is kicking in with half a jawline to carve off now.

the anaesthetic has to be local, because when at last the accursed neural link is removed and filled in, you need to keep tabs on if the patient still has a functioning brain. so when it's finally time for her to ask about that, she can't open her mouth to do it.

nor to scream when the armed killsquad walks in.

the surgeon just sits patiently as the squad's lead sits in a chair and rolls it up. the metal in her face -- and lack of an imperial bullet in the pilot's skull -- spell out 'extremist militia' before her lips can semantically specify 'liberation front'.

her hand reaches between the pilot's thighs and traces over her freshly synthesised cunt lips.

it is definitely fucking connected.

she twitches in the surgical seat, and feels the sting of the diagnostic tool the surgeon has perched in her skull. she wishes the anaesthetic would make it easier to stay till, but all it does is ruin her ability to control herself.

"not clipping those pretty wings, are you honey?" the rebel asks.

the pilot's face is red and swollen and numb and she only feels the tears when they slip into the stitches, wet as the rebel's fingers.

"hush hush," she continues, pushing inside, testing how many fingers blood money has bought the pilot capacity for. "i'll let you keep your toys, they suit you. but you've got a lot more things to pay off first if you don't want daddy imperium finding out about this new face of yours."

her other hand presses into the pilot's collar. their masks make a poor showing of hiding the way the other rebels shift uneasily.

but they don't bother to interrupt.

"now doctor, about her unpaid tab? happy to cover it, just need to cancel those removals and schedule a few... upgrades."

[meli-writes]

the last survivor of a house that went to war, watching the dropships tear her garden to shreds as they comport the last, armed formality of this ruinous attempt at greatness.

not that it was for her, a daughter. of neither import nor means to effect consequence. standing in a study she would never have inherited, holding a gun she was never allowed to hold.

when you knock on the door she fires every fucking shot into it, curses not leaving one for herself, and scrambles for a letter opener as you push the door to and gesture for your guard to remain. she doesn't hear your apologies, your reassurances till you've forced the gun out of her hand and gently circled her at the waist.

not enough to hold her there, but ready if she tries.

she's seated in the command centre you make out of the great hall, and demands a drink for each signature she makes. there's a lot of paperwork to submit to the diet when a house falls: guilt for a war she never started, transfer of possessions that were never hers because she was just another one of them.

she has a lot of terse words about 'unafforded opportunities', those you received without question, and murmured ones about what she'll be afforded now -- from you. the tears mix with the port & sherry.

you carry her to bed when she can't stand anymore, hold her hand when she's too unconscious to protest your touch, and pull a chair to fall asleep right by her.