fischscayle

[fischscayle]

The phrase "neural ripper" keeps occurring to me. A great scifi hack is to throw "neural" or "nerve" or "neuron" etc. in front of a cool sounding verb, but I keep coming back to this one. Wtf is a neural ripper??

[fischscayle]

Your sergeant, clad in lead protective equipment, looks on, a cruel smirk plastered on their face as you debase yourself before them. In one hand, they hold your leash, in the other, a pack of potassium iodide pills. Like a dog searching for warmth in winter, you cradle the housing unit of your mech's reactor. The thing's almost as large as you easily and costs twice as much.

The housing unit's covered in warnings and reminders of hazardous materials protocols; just looking at it makes your hairs stand on end. Every time you're on a sortie, you can feel its toxic warmth radiating slightly from just underneath the cockpit, a constant reminder of the volatility of your existence.

Nevertheless, here you are, rutting against it like a stupid mutt. At first, you're hesitant, both logic and higher instinct making you jump a little every time your skin touches the nearly too-hot metal. The sergeant yanks your collar forward, choking you more and more until you finally summon the courage to press yourself against the housing unit in full, frightened tears bursting from your eyes the moment you do. Your crotch tingles with arousal- or is that radiation?

"This," your sergeant laughs. "Is the worst thing I've ever seen."

It's the worst thing you've ever done. And, awfully, it feels really, really good. The buzzing sensation of high-energy, high-density radiation ripping through your soft flesh is like the most subtle and insidious vibrator. It's probably just your brain playing tricks, but it's like you can feel your cells bursting.

You hump the housing unit harder and faster, bit by bit, as arousal dulls your common sense. You can't help it. Your biology betrays you as you rub yourself tearfully all over your mech's irradiated heart, eventually mounting it like a sybian. Your crotch and inner thighs begin to turn pink with radiation burns. I'm so sorry, you think over and over like a mantra. Please, forgive me.

Your mech is silent. The only sounds filling the hangar are your disgusting sniffling moans and the chortling of the sergeant. By the time you cum, you're almost fully sobbing, asking yourself how you ended up like this. "Please," you squeak, your orgasm hitting you all at once. "Please, I don't want to die."

Before you even finish cumming, there's a harsh pull at your collar, yanking you off of the housing unit. You're choked relentlessly as the sergeant drags you away from the thing. It's covered in your fluids, covered in your shame. Your vision fuzzes and fades as consciousness is choked from you.

The last thing you hear is laughter.

The last thing you see is your mech's defiled heart.

[fischscayle]

SABRE Pilots prior to 2227 were widely feared by rebel forces for their superior firepower, sensor suites, and armour. Shortly after the Van Pike Massacre, insurgents began exploiting a vulnerability in the SABRE system’s neural encryption; while they found that this did not allow for direct

interference with a unit’s (or pilot’s) physical systems, it WAS however discovered that sounds, images, and sensations could be injected into an active neural link via complex signal interference.

Pilots would experience these interceptions as hallucinations. If multiple interceptions occurred simultaneously, they would be experienced simultaneously.

It was common for insurgents to inject specifically disturbing or horrific hallucinations in their signals. Notable themes included torture, mass-murder, combat, and sexual assault.

“Brainmelters” could quickly cause psychosis, catatonia, or rarely, death, in pilots. This occurred via a crashing of the SABRE’s neural-link processing unit causing feedback loops leading to damage of the pilot’s neurons, and sheer psychological stress.

Post-war, many pilots would seek out known brainmelter signals used during the conflict. Pirate broadcasts would be experienced recreationally by users. These would eventually become the first neuronarcotics, and are often argued as sparking the Neuronarcotic Crisis of 2335.

[fischscayle]

R&D officer who keeps coming up with shit just to see their favourite pilot-hound drool as their brain is slow-cooked by the increased (and maybe intentionally un-optimized) neural load.

[fischscayle]

The Coalition-approved combat stimulants essentially overclock a pilot's body, pushing your physical functions to the limit allowed by your mind, and then a little further beyond.

Unfortunately, the recoil that comes with these is just as potent. Your entire body feels likeit's made of soft lead. Warm, tingling waves roll through you lazily, radiating outwards from every abused muscle fibre; they're all abused and torn, but the stims' blowback turn what should be a crippling stiffness into pleasure. Your mind turns to mush as your body's signals cross and collide.

Hot embarrassment warms your cheeks as many pairs of eyes look down at you, sprawled across the barracks floor. Your comrades… you can only think in sensations at this point, your mind so rotted by the "military grade" chemical weaponry injected into you every sortie.

You're too cross-eyed to see, and your ears are ringing too hard to hear, so you feel instead: a rough hand forcing your mouth open, fingers playing with your tongue. Your sweat-soaked clothes being peeled off of you. Somebody's combat boot presses down on your abdomen, and suddenly you're pissing yourself, and it's the best thing you've ever felt. You want to vomit.

Then they're on you, tearing, ripping, attacking your scarred skin with tooth and nail, forcing themselves inside of you and onto you. Pure instinct lets you rally enough to buck against them, but that only seems to make it worse. Your screams come out as mewls. Your pleadings are reduced to confused gurgles.

It's all out of order: the group cheers, and you barely mutter a "huh" before your own orgasm hits you. You cum so hard that it makes you feel like butter. You can practically feel your crotch melting off; it's so visceral and fantastic that fear flares in your belly as you wonder if your flesh actually is sloughing away. You can't even lift your head to check.

The nausea wins, and you puke. Then everything goes dark.

[fischscayle]

Combat Unit Loading Bay CU-23

You're a pilot stuck halfway through your dismount protocol. Your visual feed's cut- you're blind. Only your bare back and neck are exposed to the cold hangar air as the flight engineers take turns plugging and unplugging your neural port, laughing at how your body spasms.

Every rough insertion gives way to a nauseating pleasure that makes your throat squeeze around the plastic intubation tube still stuck down it. Every sick, violating caress of their many work gloves is like lightning through your skin. Your bucking and twitching is, medically speaking, a series of small seizures.

Slam. Slam. Slam. Sticky strings of Cockpit Environ Fluid disintegrate every time the thick bundle of needles is pulled back, and, there's a wet 'schlick' sound every time it's shoved back in. The contact of the metal handle with the blastplex base of your implant makes your knees quiver and your ears ring. You taste copper and spinal fluid. You're so stimulated it makes you numb; when you finally cum it's just as much a shock to the engineers as it is to you. Their delight turns to disgust. "Lobotomite," one of them literally spits at you. Your ears and useless eyes are ringing so hard that you don't care.

The clanging of their steel-toe boots against the cockpit access catwalk fades, and when you finally regain your senses beyond sloppy choking and reactive squirming, you realize that you're alone.

You shiver, the sweat and CEF on your back beginning to crust.

They wouldn't leave you like this.

Right?