comraderomeo

[comraderomeo]

I sincerely apologize to anyone who has been waiting for another chapter of Where Skin Ends. I've been having trouble writing for this story as of late, and therefore have decided to put it on hold for the time being. There are a lot of thoughts going on regarding it. I hope to return in one way or another, but I'll be taking a few detours in the meantime.

Thank you to everyone who has read anything I've done so far. You're all wonderful.

[comraderomeo]

Where Skin Ends Ch. 6

Updated every Thursday (I missed the release date for this chapter like three times I'm so sorry. However, this is a particularly long chapter so hopefully that makes up for it.)

Links: ao3 masterpost

cw: nothing of note

The following morning, you wake up without issue. It's mostly out of the desire to avoid sleeping more than the bare minimum, though you're always a slave to physical training regardless. After a mile and the usual reps, you're tempted to complain about how MechWarriors technically don't need to be in peak physical condition, but you bite your tongue after Alex steals that time to complain about not being assigned any active contracts. You cringe at the implication. It's your Hatchetman that's still in for repairs. She needs it, but the lance could be working right now if it weren't for your lack of skill. Edward seems to take notice and helpfully notes that everyone is generously on a garrison contract in the meantime. That does nothing to calm your nerves and you stalk off again. The anger doesn't last long because it’s rooted in petulance, so you wander. You weren't awarded any further responsibilities, so you do so without repercussion. You track over the exterior of the base, setting new walking paths in your mind while avoiding that pond from the night before. When mealtime comes, you eat, and when colleagues call upon you for one thing or another, you oblige. Following dinner, you take an indulgent trip to the ‘mech bays. It's difficult to reenter the lustful fugue state you entered the last time, because the head ‘tech is still mulling around. The fleeting groundedness you have in that moment allows you to talk with her for more than one sentence. You learn the local ‘mech production facility specializes in incompatible engine designs, so they were forced to order well out of system. She apologizes when saying it would come out of your account, but you don't care. It will never be about C-Bills for you. Afterwards, a brief trip off-base rewards you with a bottle whose label you barely read and some freshly laundered clothes. The purchase is disgusting, but you frame it as a reward. After a half bottle and not nearly enough water, you clumsily turn in for a dreamless night’s sleep. What a pointless day.

The following morning, you wake up full of regret. Your head is pounding, and you have no one to blame but yourself. You swallow mouthfuls of water directly from the sink, in hopes that it will save you from the headache. It helps enough to get you to physical training only slightly late. Ashe comments on it snidely, as she has a right to, but you catch Alex giving her a look about it. She stops afterward. You perform suboptimally at the exercises, but that's to be expected. The wandering that follows isn't any better than it was the day before. Enlisted members of the LCAF wander around base, often in a rush but sometimes leisurely. You catch a moment of gossip between two grunts about how, “MechWarriors get all the special treatment, but they'd never survive a real firefight.” You want to interrupt to say you've done more than your fair share of footsoldiering, but it's not worth the inevitable argument. However, you do lose yourself in a theoretical debate and thoroughly defeat the poor imaginary grunt with your vastly superior intellect and valuable real-life experience, such that I'm sure he feels the psychic beating you give him. This takes you away from navigation, though, and you fade back into reality to discover you’re near the pond from your most recent round of night walking. It puts you on edge, despite the fact it's inhabited by a few soldiers in casual clothes who seem to be perfectly happy. You nervously glance to the bushes, in fear of a blinding light that never comes. Later, you take a very light dinner to your room and avoid drinking yourself to sleep this time. Luckily, no dreams come. What a pointless day.

The following morning, you wake up just fine. It's almost as if a metaphysical fog had previously rolled in and is just now receding. In fact, you don't remember much of the past couple days. The bottle sitting on your side table is most likely the cause of that. You dress yourself in your exercise clothing and make short work of today’s physical training. While jogging, you and Alex discuss the state of the war and how odd it is that your lance is stationed on the complete wrong side of the Commonwealth for their attacks on the Draconis Combine. Regardless, the Commonwealth seems to be doing well in their Operation Götterdämmerung with the assistance of your Bravo and Charlie lances. The Federated Suns are doing much the same on the lower side of the Inner Sphere. This is all very insightful and you nod along dutifully but don't develop any real opinion on the state of affairs. After a shower and some food, you find yourself with nothing to do again. This lack of direction is crushing to you, and you promise yourself that you'll protest garrison contracts in the future. So, you sit on the pavement with your back against a warehouse. You start to settle down and tell yourself that maybe you'll nap for a while in the middle of a military base and surrounded by people trying to work. Luckily, you barely get a minute to yourself before a voice breaks through the crowd,

“Oh, Sergeant, is that you?”

You track the source of the voice, and of course, you find none other than Hannelore Geelen. You take the opportunity to be snide,

“Ah, Corporal. I assume I missed another of your dinner invitations?”

She chuckles, and you find it reassuring.

“Well, not this time, and I can't say I'm that hungry either.”

“That's a shame. I was just starting to think that awful story I made up worked.”

She laughs fully this time.

“Well, I wouldn't say that's the part that ‘worked,’ but sure it was a great story.”

Your unaltered brain stops you from going down another regrettable route.

“Ha, though I think I have to clarify and say I wasn't actually trying anything. I was just drunk and stupid.”

An emotion passes over her, but it's hard to catch.

“Ah, yeah I figured as much. It didn't seem like your specialty, no offense.”

“None taken. But anyway, why did you stop by?”

Hannelore makes a show of thinking for a moment.

“Well, I was just going to say hi, but if you're so positive that I need something from you, then maybe we should do something before I have to turn in for curfew.”

“What would we do?”

“I don't know. We could find a place to sit and talk?”

You find yourself being contrarian out of necessity.

“You're not hungry, I don't feel much up to leaving base, and military installations don't often cater to casual seating, so I'm not sure where we’d go.

“Oh, right, hmm… Wait! Don't mercs have their own rooms here? I think I heard that somewhere.”

“We do.”

“Then we could use yours, if that's alright.”

“Oh I see. Maybe that story worked a little too well…”

It's subtle, but Hannelore’s cheeks redden as she rushes through her response,

“Oh, nono, that's not what I meant! It's just convenient. Sorry, I didn't mean anything weird.”

You reply with a protective bluntness,

“I didn't think you did. It was a joke. We can do that, if you'd like.”

“Ok… Great! Lead the way.”

You get up and gesture matter-of-factly for her to follow. She does.

An awkward silence hangs between the two of you, as you walk. However, the base isn't too large, so it's only a few moments before you manage to make it worse. A few doors before your own, you realize your room is just as you left it (a mess), so you panic slightly. The only reasonable conclusion you come to is that you'll have to make Hannelore wait outside while you tidy,

“Sorry, Corporal, but I need to take care of something quickly. Please wait here.”

She looks at you with a cocked head, but you slip inside before she responds. Your room isn't that large, and in honesty, it's been worse. However, the duffle bag that holds the remnants of the clean laundry from a few days ago and the growing pile of discarded clothing are sitting out, looking as unappealing as ever. You rush to throw the dirty clothes all directly on top of the clean ones, only barely stopping to lay a shirt out flat to delineate the separation. Then, the bag is zipped and thrown into a corner with no consideration for what damage you could've just done. This is why I try to tell you to store important documents better; it's not like you listen anyway. You find solace in the only other visible issue being an uncleaned mirror, which you file under “things everyone has.” Then, you're back at the door. You decide there's tension and that it needs breaking, so you open the door and say,

“No solicitors.”

Hannelore jumps at how suddenly you reappear, but recovers quickly with a half-hearted chuckle. You wave her inside, and she follows, visibly nervous. The both of you stand in the only room that's not for bathing. You feel cramped with the extra company, but Hannelore seems to disagree,

“Oh, wow. This is way nicer than anything they give us.”

“It's better than I usually get. The dropship only has bunks.”

“Well, you should take advantage while you've got it.”

You don't often look people in the eyes, but you catch Hannelore’s flick to your side table before she makes a deserved off-colour joke,

“Or, maybe you have already, haha.”

“Oh, right, sorry…”

You shamefully grab the remnants of the alcohol from where you left it and slide the thing under your bed. Hannelore looks slightly embarrassed the whole time. You anxiously push onward and state matter-of-factly,

“You can sit on the bed, if you want.”

“Oh, ok. Thank you.”

She does as you offered, and seems unsure as to whether she should make room for you or not. You make sure to answer her unsaid question by leaning against an open space of your completely undecorated wall. She shifts to the middle of the bed and starts off with the formality of smalltalk,

“So, how’ve you been?”

“It's been boring, mostly.”

She nods knowingly.

“Ah, yeah. Perimeter patrols will melt your brain after a while.”

“I don't get that even. I'm not sure your brass knows what to do with me.”

“Oh, huh. I guess because your ‘mech is still in for repairs right?”

You shrug and reply bluntly,

“My own CO doesn't know what to do with me. It's a bit of a pattern.”

She doesn't seem to know what to say to that so instead pulls a small, pill-shaped object from her pants pocket, followed by something more circular with a cable hanging off it.

“So, are you into music at all?”

You hesitate but respond honestly,

“I'm a musician.”

“Oh really!? That's so cool! What do you play?”

“It's um- It's called a ‘tiorbarrón.’ It sort of takes elements from a guitar, a bass, and a lute, if that helps.”

Hannelore thinks, trying to imagine the thing you could have just physically demonstrated. She seems to find some logic in that explanation and nods happily,

“It sounds interesting! But anyway, I just got a bunch of new music from a catalog I follow. Do you want to hear some of it?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Great! One second…”

She plugs the cable into the oblong device, which you guess is a music player, and fiddles with its controls. You hear the beginning of a few songs flicker by until she settles on one. She introduces it as the song fades in,

“Ok, this one is called ‘Walls Crumble Under the Weight of Judgement.’ It’s off the new album by the Forgotten Tides Orchestra, Ashes From Faraway Fires. It's probably one of my favorites of theirs.”

When she finishes, the wider instrumentation seems to take a cue, and what was once a single somber distorted guitar grows to a sudden crescendo of noise. The harshness slowly dies down as its memory reverberates through the hall it was recorded in. The percussion section seizes this lull and strikes you with a driving beat. Vocals soon join for the first time, a chorus filled with rage and ragged at the edges, same as all the strings. They sing about destruction and war. The harmony is clean and speaks of shallow mourning and pallid reassurances from the lips of an oligarch. Another rise precedes a somber section. The first chair guitar duets with a single vocalist. Allegory to some religion you're unfamiliar with accentuates the feelings of despair from being alone in the face of a hungry war machine, but as the pair's soliloquy reaches its conclusion, the rest of the performers rejoin the song one-by-one. You mark this beginning of a new movement at about eight minutes in, and prepare to be here a while. The renewed energy brings with it a sense of solidarity, as the choir sings of just that. You slowly start to lose track of the song, becoming overwhelmed by first time analysis, and when you come back to it, a long, synthetic note screams out the end of the song, fading like the hopes of trillions. Upon reflection, you find the subject and composition immature and malformed, but it's earnest. Hannelore looks at you expectantly,

“Well, how’d you like it?”

You hide your true feelings on the matter with a deflection of sorts,

“It was… interesting. I've never heard anything like it, but I wasn't necessarily ‘classically trained.’ Regardless, I’m sorry House Steiner dragged you into their war.”

She looks at you confused,

“Wait, what?”

You rightfully feel like an idiot but are unsure why,

“Because of the music; you were drafted right?”

Hannelore takes her turn to be embarrassed now,

“Oh, no, I uh- I enlisted a few years ago. I guess my music taste is a little weird given that…”

“Sorry, I just thought that since, you know, the whole theming of the song.”

“I… yeah. I'm a bit of a poser if you think about it.”

“It's still a good song.”

“It is! Neo-orchestral post hard-punk is probably my favorite genre right now.”

“I'm sorry, neo what?”

“Ah, right, I forget most people aren't as well versed in modern music.”

“I'm learning that I'm far less well-versed in music than I thought today.”

She laughs with a tinge of nerves before launching into a kind of spiel that she must have practiced in her head countless times without being able to say it to anyone,

“So, I guess I'll start with the basics. I'll assume you get what the ‘neo-orchestral’ part means?”

“I think so.”

She takes a deep breath; you've gotten in too deep.

“Ok, good, well the other parts go back to a few movements in the late 20th century that kind of made a comeback after parts of them were discovered in various Star League caches –can’t thank those guys enough for having good taste, haha. The easiest to explain is probably the ‘punk’ part. You know the angry simple chords and heavy distortion and vocals about how the government sucks? That's kind of what punk is in a way. And, the cool part is the subculture never really died, but that means there's now a whole debate about whether classical punk or current punk is the ‘real’ thing –which is a debate that also never died, I think. So, there's that and a little while after that scene developed on ancient Terra, another movement split off from it called hardcore. To really oversimplify things again, it was kind of like punk but pure anger, so it ended up being almost incomprehensible walls of noise with vocals that would rip my throat to shreds if I tried to sing them. And from that genre of hardcore, evolved a subgenre called post-hardcore and- Are you familiar with A Silver Mount Zion?”

You shake your head,

“Not at all.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. But ok, they're a particularly good example of early post-hardcore, I think. And if it helps drive the connection home, they went by a lot of different names, including ‘Thee Silver Mount Zion Memorial Orchestra.’ So, that's kind of how people made the jump to combine all these genres. And, it helps that whoever was stationed on that old Star League research station was a big fan, so we got a pretty complete discography. That, plus the pretty constant state of war that we’re in, directed some artists away from the more esoteric lyricism of post-hardcore to some more direct calls to action. All in all, the genre is a pain to classify, but it produces some of the best music around, at the moment. For example, you have Forgotten Tides, and Ample Reason to Lose, and-”

You again are overwhelmed by analysis. You deign to find yourself interested in this, but at this point, the band names all blur together, and you're unsure whether ‘Combat Wounded Veteran’ is the name of a song, an album, an artist, or someone you used to know. You keep nodding along regardless, which is practically lying through your teeth. Eventually, she slows down, and you catch the social need to show your interest with a question,

“You seem really dedicated to this, so why are you still in the military? It seems like you should have the moral imperative to leave.”

That is possibly the worst question you could have chosen. You've mortified your guest at least three times this evening. It's a surprise she's still here.

“Oh, well, yeah, uh, it's weird, but I don't know. I guess I'm just stuck in it.”

You at least have the grace to apologize,

“Sorry, I shouldn't have asked.”

“Nono, it's ok. I asked about you being a merc after all.”

She chuckles to diffuse the situation and buy her time to think of an answer.

“And just so you know, I’ve thought of it, leaving that is. I think I would do it, if I had anything else to do with myself.”

“I'm sorry. I know the feeling, in a way.”

“I can see that. And well, it's just that I fucked up my chance at school, and they didn't let me finish that training when I enlisted. I haven't died yet, and maybe if I last long enough, they'll give me a pension or something.”

She says that profanity with such vitriol that it catches you by surprise. You haven't heard her angry at all, especially not enough to curse. After that first night, you assumed she was incapable of anger. How presumptuous of you.

“Can’t you use what pay you have already to try again?”

“Maybe, but I don't get mercenary pay, much less Lyran ‘mech pay. And, I feel like I lost my chance anyway.”

“I'm sorry then.”

She laughs as if something’s funny,

“It's ok. But, back to music, you said you play, right?”

This conversation is becoming half diversions at this rate.

“I did.”

“Well, sorry for prying, but is this an instrument case?”

She taps the rounded corner of the case accompanying your bottle underneath the bed. You nod,

“That's my instrument, yes. Please don't kick it, I've had it longer than I've had a ‘mech.”

“Ah! Sorry!”

“It's ok. I doubt you damaged it this time.”

She hops off the bed expectantly, and you abide. The case slides out from where it has sat since you arrived. The second of your two allowed pieces of luggage is blank but not pristine. You've seen the occasional traveling musician or busker at dropship terminals or streets corners in the past, and your case bares almost no resemblance to the scratched, stickered, and storied cases of those artists. The scratches it does bare are few and far between, and you would hope so since you rightfully insist on hand loading it whenever it's needed. There is also not a single sticker on the thing. Framed by expectation, the question had been asked. A blunt response highlighted how decoration was unprofessional and unbecoming. Hannelore seems to notice your deliberation and politely implies you should stop,

“It's an interesting shape.”

She's referring to the way the neck of the case cuts off at half the length of a normal guitar neck. You nod with the borrowed confidence of an expert and open the case to illustrate,

“The neck folds. It's actually quite long.”

You remove the instrument from its berth, careful to slide the protective flap out from between the neck pieces as you do. Then, you gently unfold it. The neck resembles a merging of a guitar and a harp. The bottom ten strings, two single and four doubled, are set on the fretted part of the neck and serve the part of melody and rhythm, while the top five are suspended on the harp-like section of the neck and provide a droning bass line. Both sets are made of gut, which is excessively difficult to source outside of your home, and they terminate in a bridge on the body that is styled much like a large acoustic guitar. This is all characteristic of the instrument as a class, but what makes the one you hold above the rest is the shape of the sound hole. In the center of the body, a classical ermine coat symbol is cut. Within the shape, a lattice structure highlights the curves of the cut and ensures its structural stability. You know all these details by heart, but you retread them every time you look at them because this is the second or possibly third most beautiful item you'll ever lay your hands on.

“Wow… I've never seen something like that before.”

You return your focus to the conversation,

“You probably never will again. It's a local specialty, I've come to learn.”

“Oh, you mean from your home system? Where is that?”

“It was somewhere on the periphery, but I don't think it would be worth the trip anymore.”

She seems to catch your implication and doesn't press,

“Well, maybe learning about it from you will be good enough then.”

“Maybe.”

“Anyway, not to be that person, but can you play something? I'd love to hear it!”

You nod, because why wouldn't you? It's one of your most redeeming features that you can play and now’s the time to use it. You choose a song, a simple tune with accompanying lyrics about the changing of the seasons, and you begin using the ever-sensitive geared tuners to put the instrument in key. Your ear is rusty, so half the notes are slightly flat, but it's serviceable. Hannelore watches the process with a keen interest that unnerves you.

“Sorry for the wait, Corporal. Should I start?”

“Of course! Whenever you're ready, Sergeant.”

You nod, and begin. A slow strum of a chord on the bottom strings heralds the song. The bass strings join in soon after, and you find yourself mimicking the grace of a tiorbarrón master. The longer the song draws on and the more your fingers struggle to tap out a melody on the frets, you feel increasingly weighed down. Despite the song being a friendly appreciation of seasons experienced lightyears away, you’re beset by a horrible weight. Your guest doesn't seem to notice, but a tear wells against your eye. You find it hard to concentrate now, and your rhythm begins to stumble into the lead. You don't let the song drag you along and end it suddenly.

“Oh, what happened? Are you alright?”

You force a laugh to stifle the tears,

“Ha, I'm ok. It's just been a while, and I can feel how rusty I am.”

“That makes sense. Maybe you should take your time here to practice then. It seems like we might be here a while.”

You nod, knowing fully well that you won't. A silence follows, and you try to be kind and hold the instrument in a way where Hannelore can see. She looks perhaps too closely and reinitiates,

“So, what's the meaning of the design in the middle? I assume it has one.”

That's not a question you expected and certainly not one you wanted. It's not something you can easily deflect from, so you refuse bluntly.

“I’d rather not say.”

She takes it a little personally, and that shows on her face. It's the better result in your mind. You take the opportunity to break the neck of the instrument again and restore it to its home. During the process, you check the humidifying pack stored in the case. It's fine. Just after the lid thumps closed, Hannelore announces her leave,

“Well, um, I guess I should probably head out now.”

“I'm sorry for keeping you.”

“You weren't! I asked you, didn't I?”

“I guess.”

“Anyway, I'll see you around then.”

“Have a nice night.”

She waves. You wave. She walks out the door. A pit in your stomach forms. You don't know why, but when you slide the case back under the bed, you trade for the bottle to try and fill it. What a pointless day.

[comraderomeo]

Apologies, the next chapter will probably be next week. I hope you can see it in your hearts to forgive and forget this most horrible betrayal.

[comraderomeo]

Where Skin Ends Ch. 5

Updated Every Other Thursday (Unless I'm Busy And Post A Day Late)

links: ao3 masterpost

cw: none of note

You stumble back into your room, unsteady out of fatigue, which is welcome in a way. Your first stop is the bathroom, and on your way out, you splash water on your face. Still dripping, you look yourself in the mirror for a brief moment and smile. It's an insult in so many ways. You realize and stop smiling. Then, you strip down to the tank top and underwear you sleep in, the pile of unwashed clothes in the corner growing to slightly larger than is reasonable, but tomorrow you only have physical training in the morning, so you can shower and take care of laundry sometime later of course. There's not much else to consider. You already ate and gave up on hobbies ages ago. Or, should it be “hobby?” You wince at the thought and turn a fleeting glance to the rounded edge of a black case poking out from underneath your bed. No use in thinking about it now, your hands will just cramp from the memory and it'll take away from your sleep. So, you put your head to your thin pillow and call the day over. In the next half hour, you fade into that place between being awake and asleep. 

Framed by evergreens, you pushed a worn Spider through an endless sea of forest. This was a clear memory, 3023, early in your tenure with the Silver Wing. You didn't even have Her yet. And, He was a fresh scar. You were here with the rest of Alpha Lance to do some diversionary work for a potential invasion of Hyde. “Get in, destroy some infrastructure, get out,” it was a standard assignment for a recon lance. Now, you were serving as the tip of the spear, assigned to spot and harrass for the rest as they advanced. You felt lucky the forest was dense, because in a rare display, you had remembered something from the briefing, and this power station had more firepower in its defense than your employer could afford to deploy. You were shaken from your rumination on the surprising cheapness of the Great Houses when a warning appeared on a screen to your bottom right. In amber, it said, “HtSk1 Lo Flow.” Your well-trained brain immediately translated it to, “low coolant flow in heat sink 1.” It wasn't a death sentence but really would be annoying in a few minutes. You turned your thoughts to the cheapness of mercenaries and shook your head as much as it could in the heavy neurohelmet. You tried to recycle it; no luck. The warning popped up after another second. A realization hit you then: the real risk here would be getting spotted through the trees on account of the higher heat. “When on Terra…” you muttered to yourself, as you flicked your view to thermal. Through the trees, you expected to make out the vague outline of the steam plumes rising into the atmosphere from the plant and a few ominous but obscured silhouettes of turrets sitting on the corners of the perimeter wall. However, there were only muted and blurry shapes beyond. It was unsettling, but perhaps it was just an atmospheric anomaly. It was nothing you couldn't correct for once you exited the forest.

A wide line of pure, white heat split your viewscreen into two neat halves. 

The size and sheer power of the beam burned your eyes from the edges, as the light scrambled through the window and around the screen. The heat alarm blared; the Spider threatened to overheat from pure radiant energy. You tried to back it away, but the warning escalated to shutdown. You at least welcomed the blackness that saved your eyes from further damage. You rushed through the restart sequence while the light faded. By the time the outside view flickered back on, the light was dissipated, leaving only the stumps of trees buried into scorched earth and highlighted by fresh embers. By your expert tactical analysis, this was bad. No terrestrial directed energy weapon acted like this, it was closer to an act of some god. You scanned the area, looking for the source of this or any other hostiles. There were no machines of war to be seen, but so far that it strained your eyesight even with magnification, a silhouette stood on a hill. Maxing the heat sensors, She also burned bright white. You thumbed the trigger for your lasers in panic, but She turned and walked back over the hill before you could commit. The only thing left to do now was chase Her.

You tentatively accelerated toward the newly hewn end of the forest. You could smell the burning of flesh, even though the filtration system should have left you free of it. You smelled it and immediately turned to desperation, sending the Spider into a sprint. The left foot of the Spider crossed the threshold from the treeline into wasteland or a garden that always took your breath away, no matter how often you visited. Framed by elegant wooden arches painted a pristine white, planters lined a stone pathway. Each was filled with a small collection of complimentary flowers that most wouldn't even recognize as horribly exotic and equally expensive. You walked the Spider forward, taking in each small beauty. It took significant focus to determine the garden was massive such that the Spider was proportional to what a human visitor should be. Beyond the planters lay a sprawling display of local ferns and flowers, all arranged into a precisely formed layering of colour and artistry. There were benches along the paths that toured it where visitors or servants would often sit. They were empty. Peeking over the hill beyond the massive display, you could see the tops of the orchard trees –it always felt like they were spying on whomever visited. The Spider stomped along the serene path. You knew from stolen memory what to expect at the end of it: a small patio on a raised section of dirt. It was circular and a perfect vantage point. The sun was just beginning to set from its midday pinnacle, and the breeze turned the late spring warmth into a calming cool. You continued slowly now, ‘mech feet replaced with something more human. A bottle of wine fine enough to impress but modest enough for lunch was tucked under an arm and threatened to slip. I moved to adjust it with my free hand, but She caught my eye. I gasped. The bottle slipped. Crimson and glass splatter against the stone and my leg.

You sit up in your bed faster than you would even for a scramble. You're breathing heavily and put your head in your hands. Sweat makes your skin tacky. You try to remind yourself where you are, but find it hard. Your hand fumbles for the lamp switch and eventually finds it, proving to your panicked mind that you're in your temporary quarters on… You fail to find the name of the planet you've been stationed on somehow. The mind keeps flicking back to other things, and it's not as if you're known for your attentiveness, memory, or sobriety. Speaking of, you peer over the side of the bed, looking for some sign of drink. You're almost surprised to find none, having expected a hazardous pool of red wine on your synthetic wood floor. You quietly curse yourself for not drinking yourself to sleep again to avoid this waking up to shock and shivers. A sigh leaves your lips, and you leave the fleeting comfort of bed to throw on some dirty, casual clothes. There's not much room for sleep anymore.

Night walks have been a staple for you for quite a while. Whether a case of not wanting to sleep or not being able to, the calm quietness of night helps to soothe your petty issues. The air is always cooler, the streets always emptier, and the world always happier when the light of a system is hidden from view. You finish justifying your actions to yourself by the time you step out of the exterior door, only to realize you have yet to learn a good path to walk in this new environment. So, you wander. You take in the sights as you do; the garrison complex is drab and boring, as always, but just outside is a pleasant plain. You think about the rolling hills, grass, plants, terraforming, and pre-Star League colonization all in quick succession. It might've been quite the mental documentary if your thoughts were ever coherent. Eventually, you stumble upon a small park surrounding a pond. It looks quaint and peaceful enough to take your mind off of things. You circle the water, in a rush to breathe in the cool air. Something rustles in the grass a few meters away from you. It scares you within an inch of your life, despite it likely being a creature smaller than a breadbox. You start to catch your breath again when the bushes reply,

“Wait, do I know you?”

The light peeks out from the bushes, blinding only you. You stifle a scream but still turn to run. Hidden in the reeds and your panic, you hear more words but don't heed them,

“Damn, twice in the same day…”

Your bed isn't any more welcoming when you return to it, but you're used to forcing things upon yourself. Sleep follows dreamless yet empty.

[comraderomeo]

Apologies, the next chapter will go up tomorrow, since I'm away from home for today.

[comraderomeo]

Where Skin Ends Ch. 4

Updated Every Other Thursday

links: ao3 masterpost

cw: appreciating a 'mech more than one should

“I don't give a fuck, Mat. Almost 50% unit casualties is still utter shit!”

“Oh, as if the rest of you were holding the line so well!”

“Despite being low on ammunition, I should have advanced to enter melee. I apologize.”

“You were fine, Ed. We're talking about the idiot who got almost a whole unit of SRM carriers wiped.”

“We stopped them, didn't we?”

“Again, not the fucking. point.”

“What's your problem?”

“I just don't like seeing my partner dressed down by some goddamn Great House lackey because one of us really shouldn't even be allowed in a ‘mech!”

“I think that may be hars-”

You don't hear the rest of Edward’s rebuttal on your behalf over the sound of internal whining and the stomping of boots carrying you out the door. The halls of the training facility now wind in ways you don't remember seeing on the way in, but you remain steadfast in leaving. There are various mercenaries and Lyran regulars scattered along your path. Much like you, they're all conditioned to leave people alone when they look like they’re in a hurry, which you're thankful for. However, in a hallway that has distinctly different signage to where you piloted your ‘mech, a voice calls out to you,

“Oh! Sergeant! Sergeant Rodin! Would you want to-”

The voice cuts off when you're far enough down the hall that it's clear you're not stopping. You figure it was Edward. He’s always asking you to dine with the lance after training out of some sort of chivalry. The facts that you're in a completely different part of the building and the voice had none of Edward’s practiced, noble diction are somehow irrelevant to you, but almost no one would have stopped you anyhow. Moments later, the red light of evening engulfs you. By now, the layout of the compound your lance has been trapped in has become familiar, so you make a straight line for the mercenary ‘mech bays. A quick flash of your ID lets you in.

You approach with a reverence that you show almost nothing else. The sharp beak of the Raven, the immutable class of the Shadow Hawk, the compact fury of the Trebuchet, and somehow standing above them all, the Hatchetman. She sits in a mess of scaffolding, still stunning despite Her armor remaining mostly stripped. You blush at the sight of Her exposed myomer and almost stutter at the approach of one of the company’s ‘techs.

“Yeah, sorry Sergeant. We've been delayed a good bit by parts shortages for your Hatchetman’s fusion engine. No word on when they'll be in just yet, but I'd say no less than two weeks.”

“Hm, right… Shouldn't you be off duty by now?”

“Huh? Well yeah, I was just about to call it when you came in, but figured you'd want the update.”

“Ah. Appreciated.”

The ‘tech nods and makes her way to clock out in the staff room, leaving you alone in the bays. You exhale and return to Her. She does call you, after all. You kneel at Her feet, looking up at the full height of your Jester. She doesn't return your gaze, instead choosing to stare into the middle distance. A flow of almost incoherent babbling threatens to spill out of your mouth, but you stifle it in your throat. It's better to not make yourself look like a cultist with more faith than sanity in a semi-public area, not that you have much good image left here regardless. With your pseudo-prayer finished, you rise to one knee then to standing again, so you can approach the ‘Mech. You stop at the outside of Her left ankle, and hover a hand over the exposed myomer, as if embarrassed to touch another being. Your palm slowly lowers on to the tight cords of synthetic muscle. It's still slightly damp from the oil that it usually is drenched in. You trace your fingers up the back of the ankle, only barely daring to brush the bottom of the dense bundles that make up Her Achilles tendon. You shudder with pleasure at the sensation, which most would say is cause for concern. You consider placing your whole self against the raw metal skeleton of Her foot, but the worry of someone coming in unannounced dissuades you. Instead, you return to front and center and let the babbling take over for a brief moment,

“I know you have to sleep to recover, My Love, but I miss your warm embrace more and more with each passing day. How else can I phrase it but a heart drowning in desire? No, not full of lust –that left us long ago– but full of appreciation, care, and love. Your steel is my ambrosia and-”

Since when do you fancy yourself worthy of soliloquising?

“I… nevermind.”

You lose the moment and fluster yourself in the recoil of it. What were you even saying? And, to whom were you saying it? A brief hardening of conviction halts this thought for just enough time that you blow a kiss to Her wide, stoic visage and say,

“Until next time, My Love.”

You want so badly to go up to the upper catwalk and open Her hatch and crawl into the command couch and curl up as best you can and stay there until your hunger forces you out. However, your cumulative embarrassment from the whole day is making you nauseous, and you would rather not start a trend of losing your lunch daily. 

Then, you hear it. It's too late to prepare, which you curse yourself for, but the echoing footsteps approach regardless. You hope for only a second that someone is just passing through, but they are almost certainly making directly for you. You tense. Breathe in sharply then out slowly. You spin in time with the exhale, hand grasping at your right hip. However, the sidearm isn't there and nor is the holster. Of course it isn't. You lost that privilege when you pulled a gun on Edward and earned a month or so of probation. You're struck with the sudden and immense sting of fear. What happened to the years of training and experience that had once steeled you? Gone. You let your guard drop, and now you're as good as dead. You finish the turn and are greeted by the form of Corporal Hannelore Geelen of the 57th Lyran Armored. You stare at her, almost dumbfounded. Then, in a desperate attempt to salvage something, you raise your hand from where the holster should be, forming your index and middle fingers into a barrel and thumb into a hammer. Finger gun aimed firmly at the intruder, you imitate the recoil and say “pew.” She laughs. You thank every godlike force you can imagine for her laughter. It returns to you a sense of normalcy that you need above all else. Despite that, you feel the need to prod,

“Why are you here, Corporal?”

“Oh, well, I tried to get your attention in the halls, but you ignored me, so I asked the rest of your lance where to find you, and they said you'd probably be here. They also sounded mad at you.”

“That doesn't explain how you got into the ‘mech bays.”

“I asked nicely?”

“Then I'll need to tell command to get a whole new security team.”

“Brutal… Uh, if it helps one of them is keeping an eye on me.”

She jabs a thumb toward the entrance you had taken a short while ago. Lo and behold, there's a Silver Wing security officer leaning against the wall, eyes firmly planted in your direction. He nods. You nod back, not that you know him.

“Fine then, what was so important that you had to come all this way to avoid me ignoring you.”

“Well, I wouldn't have gone through that much effort if you had just said no, but it'd be rude to not offer properly if you just didn't hear me, right?”

“Ok, and?”

“Do you want to eat at the cafeteria with me?”

And, after only a brief reprieve, you're sraring dumbfounded at the Corporal again.

“What?”

“Was that a weird question?”

“I… guess it isn't. I assume you mean with the rest of your unit?”

“No, they went to eat already.”

“Oh.”

You crave the courage and freedom to say no. The want to spend the evening on the fringe of consciousness alone in your room is especially strong tonight, but you promised yourself that behavior belongs in the past.

“Fine. It would be rude to say no after you went through all that pointless effort.”

“I've been told that's my specialty.”

“I also should count this as an additional apology for not living up to my promise to perform in the simulation.”

Now she had the chance to look dumbfounded at you.

“What? As far as I care you did great!”

“The only commentary I've heard is, ‘50% casualties.’”

“What? That's entirely not your fault! Koumans wouldn't know good tactics if it a- uh, I mean… it's his unit, so why would you have to take responsibility!?”

“I was tasked with covering them.”

“And, how is drawing fire from two assault ‘mechs not covering them?”

“I don't know.”

“I saw Koumans leave the treeline of his own volition while you were hatchet-deep in that Cyclops.”

By now, the two of you are nearing the door out of the bays. The security officer has seemingly left, after determining you know Hannelore. You banter about details of the simulation, from the Whitworth being annihilated by artillery fire to the extremely lacking simulators the armored units get. You find it nice, but primarily in how it distracts you. Next thing you know, you're drifting through the open air again. It's obvious the both of you are subconsciously wandering to take up more of the other's time, for one selfish reason or another.

Dinner is stew for the second time in the past week. The meat is tough from overcooking, but the potato is nice enough at an almost mashed consistency. You focus more on the food than your dining partner, and she does much the same. Her eating pace is a solid clip, though, so you're not nearly halfway done when she's scraping the bottom of the platter. The meal has been blissfully quiet before now. You welcome it, despite the fact you had enjoyed the conversation on the way over, so you watched her closely in anticipation for any sign of change. Hannelore dropped her utensil without ceremony and sat back comfortably in her chair. You know what comes next and brace mentally, which is a bit overdramatic. 

“So, what's being a merc like?”

You swallow a bite of potato.

“Why?”

“I don't know. I haven't been stationed with mercs really, and it seems like a whole different experience.”

“Alex or Ashe would probably have a better answer for you.”

“Well, I'm not eating with them, am I?”

You sigh. An answer is due; stop deflecting.

“It's hollow.”

“Hollow?”

“Right. The stereotype is always ‘heartless murderers who have no loyalty to anything but C-Bills.’ I won't say there's no basis for that. However, it's not that we don't value loyalty or want nothing but to wander. It's more that our intense independence means we aren't allowed the opportunity.”

The Corporal considers this thoughtfully.

“So, is there something you’d give that freedom up for?”

You chuckle. You'd rather scream, but you chuckle.

“Ha, not anymore.”

Here is where the thought should end. She should understand that you broke everything and this vagrancy is penance. Everything is in the past now; everything is no longer your domain. She doesn't understand, though, the fool.

“Well, maybe you'll find something again. There's always time.”

There isn't time. Time ran out long ago. You're just idling at the bottom of the hourglass, and you'd do best to remember that.

“Hm, maybe there is…”

I hate you.

[comraderomeo]

Where Skin Ends Ch. 3

Updated Every Other Thursday

links: ao3 masterpost

cw: simulated war

One of the attendants guides you into the almost-featureless box on stilts that constitutes a cutting-edge ‘mech simulator. You scramble in through the back of the box. Climbing over the command couch is always a weird feeling, and as you do, you silently wonder why they don't just let you in through the front or top like a “real ‘mech.” It doesn't matter really, and they probably had reasons enough. At least you don't have to use the heating functions this time, so get to keep your uniform on and cooling vest at base. Once you're seated and grab your neurohelmet off the assistant handing it to you, the door closes, leaving the cockpit completely dark until the screens emulating the front window blink on and take the shape of a Hatchetman’s viewport. With that light, you look thoughtfully over the white and orange livery that has been painted on your helmet for over a decade. Satisfied that it wasn't marred on the way in, you sweep your hair behind your ears to reveal the area of your forehead you habitually keep shaved and slide the helmet on. It rests comfortably on your shoulders, a calming pressure. Then, you slide the connections into place and run through an approximation of Her startup. Lights all over the control console start flickering on. You look them over row by row; when satisfied, you start the neural connection. As has happened time and time before, senses are muddled in an abstract way. It's almost as if the very edges of your body are fading. Many mechwarriors complain about it, but you think it's nice in a way, reveling in the brief loss of self. What isn't nice, however, is the minor headache you always get from simulators. One would think the fact that it’s not a real interface would save you from neural feedback, but sadly that isn’t the case. 

After a few control tests, all accompanied by the artificial shudders of the hydraulic system beneath you, the simulation places you at the top of a hill opposite from where your adversaries would arrive. The other ‘mechs in your lance are in a line-up either side of you. Over the comms, you hear Alex,

“Alpha Lance, check in.”

“Calm reporting.”

“This is Scholar. I am on station.”

There's a small pause as you remember that you have to speak,

“Jester here.”

“And, as always, I'm Storm,” Alex finishes. He then goes about orders,

“Alright everyone, get to your positions, and I need Jester to disable all non-engine heatsinks, except the legs, until the enemy enter the sector. Then, shut them all down until you move.”

“Right…”

You didn't recall the part about the heatsinks being mentioned in the plan, but set your ‘mech into motion regardless. The simulated steps rumble in your ears while you traverse the landscape, flipping through diagnostic screens as you run. The cockpit would normally be warming itself into discomfort with each heatsink you disable. You can imagine the sweat that should be wetting your back at this point, even though you're only jogging. Once you hit the treeline, your gait slows. Trees crack against digital armored legs, and you notice a collection of vehicles spread across the forest floor.

“This is Jester; am I supposed to have tanks over here?”

“Affirmative, you're going to guide those SRM carriers into the back of the enemy.”

“You really weren't paying attention at the briefing, huh?”

“Shut up, Calm. I've got it.”

You really don't. It's again luck that the consequences are mostly emotional. Regardless, it's time to stumble through this as best you can.

“Jester again, if there's tanks here, where's the Corporal?”

Ashe laughs on mic, clearly intentionally.

“There's at least-”

A squeal fills your ears as Calm steps on Storm’s transmission. He relents to let her talk,

“Be glad I know what you're on about, Jester. As Calm was about to say, there's at least three of those in the 57th, but the one you're looking for is in a heavy tank over by Scholar.”

“Roger…”

Why did you even ask that question? You're not sure. Maybe it’s to avoid embarrassment again. Still, you hunker down in the forest and get comfortable for the inevitably long wait. The forest is just tall enough that the trees brush the bottom of your viewport. Well, they would if they were real. Instead, the bottom portion of your vision is taken up by some slightly off-looking leaf textures that sway predictably in the simulated wind. You brace your feet against the bottom of your control console and lie back. That's an awful idea, but you care more about the comfort it gives you than the possibility of accidentally destroying your fusion reactor. Once set, you push a button, then twist a dial until you find the frequency your pet SRM carriers are monitoring. You greet the crowd,

“This is Jester, reporting in for naptime.”

“Received, Sergeant. This is Leutnant Koumans of the 103rd Support Battalion. We'll be here when you need us.”

“Good. Try not to get distracted by… whatever debauchery it is people get up to in tanks.”

“Oh, it's nothing you could handle, Sir, but don't worry we're very good at multitasking.”

Now is when you should laugh along with them, build camaraderie, but you choose to let the brief exchange die. That leaves you in relative silence. You expect to hear some chatter on the radio from your lancemates. It's usually something about Ed’s ‘mech throwing error codes that never really matter, or Ashe and Alex getting disgustingly flirty over open comms. However, they're probably busy coordinating with the tanks on another frequency. You tell yourself you prefer the silence. It will still be a while until the enemy are engaged too, so you figure now would be as good a time as any to rest your eyes a bit. If you're needed, they'll surely radio you.

You always recall things in frames. First, there were the edges of the neurohelmet you’ve worn all your life. Then, the viewport of a ‘mech much bigger and more cruel than your own looked through the doors of a ‘mech bay out into the fields of a common pasture, dotted with a few clusters of livestock. And, beyond that, trapped between the green and the sky, was complete desolation. 

You sit up straight in your command couch, lightly bumping your knee on the console, and hit the side of your helmet, as if it was the one that had wronged you. Looking at the chronometer idly ticking away, you realize it's only been a few minutes. The small curse you utter to yourself muffles itself in the padding that surrounds your head. It's an easy conclusion that you're better off flipping through diagnostic screens and view modes, rather than zoning out again. Watching numbers oscillate between tolerances isn't particularly fulfilling nor is swapping between thermal and magscan sensors. However, right as you flick back to the dull rainbow heatmap of your surroundings, a bright red bolt haloed in yellow streaks across your vision. The shot from a Particle Projector Cannon causes a spray of dirt to kick up at the bottom of a foothill. They're way off mark. You trace a swarm of Long Range Missiles back across the battlefield, as Storm, Scholar, and a few tanks return fire. Most of the shots are wasted, but a few scattered ones impact the ‘mech that your sensors quickly identify as “VND.”

“A Vindicator, how on brand.” you say to no one. The rest of the forward lance crest into sight, and your targeting system flickers more designations up for you: WTH, CLNT, and a more sinisterly coloured SHD to contrast Edward’s ‘mech Scholar. The Clint and the Shadow Hawk advance steadily toward the defending line, which you note is a stupid move. The artificial mechwarriors piloting them seem to realize this too, as after a decent amount of their armor had been melted under extended range fire, they divert to a small forest on the far side of the pass. Meanwhile, the Vindicator and Whitworth hold back. The former is making wide esses to keep itself nimble, while sending off streams of missiles punctuated by crackling PPC shots. The other sits itself patiently in a moderately wooded area and launches an almost never-ending flow of missiles. The forces on your side are maneuvering with a slow precision. Ashe takes Calm up on top of a decently tall foothill and points its cockpit directly toward the Whitworth. Seconds later, explosions rain from the sky, nearly annihilating the trees and leaving the ‘mech with one less arm than it started its short digital life with. Over the radio, Edward comments with sounds of combat clear in the background,

“That would be a shame, if it were real. The Whitworth is becoming rare.”

“Yeah, well if we find one out there, I'll try not to core it for you.”

“I am not a collector. However, it is appreciated.”

“Quit the banter; we still have another lance inbound.”

You just sit quietly as they talk, not sure if you should be radio silent or not. It’s not much of a loss. Shortly after, the two advancing ‘mechs take a brief pause. The supporting ones sidle off as well. It's almost as if they're a royal guard announcing the entrance of an emperor, because just then the assault lance enters your view. They enter side-by-side in what’s clearly modeled on a real life intimidation tactic. Again, you're given a series of designations. An Awesome stands on the furthest end from you, eager to lend its three PPCs to the Vindicator. Then, there is a Zeus already accelerating to close distance. A Cyclops was next, standing proud over its subordinates, slowly becoming a prime threat. Finally, on the end closest to you, a familiar form catches your eye.

Framed by maintenance rigging, you see the Black Knight. His form was contoured, yet intimidating; it's very clearly invoking the legendary tales of ancient terran soldiers. When draped in the honorable colours of orange and white, He was a sight to behold. A ‘tech was nearby, busy rambling about all the details of a shakedown that was to happen that afternoon. That was all secondary. It was impossible to focus on what was said, when His gaze was so entrancing and total. You feel pain knowing you will never again see something so pristine and elegant in your lifetime.

“Ah fuck, I wasn't expecting that much tonnage.”

“We have a whole armored regiment on our side, Calm; what’d you expect?”

An autocannon shot hits a light tank in just the wrong spot and starts the ammunition cooking off. In your lull, the Zeus and Cyclops have made significant progress toward the front line. Both Scholar and Calm seem to have noticeable damage, and a decent number of tanks are entirely out of action. However, on a brighter note, it seems the enemy’s Whitworth hadn't stood up to much more artillery fire, probably to Edward’s chagrin. You realize it’s almost time to move, and reach out to grab your twin control sticks. Your feet nestle into the grips of the jump jet pedals. You have to admit that it feels good to be at the controls of a battlemech, even a simulated one. It's just a few more minutes now, but it's hard to sit still while you're watching everyone else lose your battle for you. Despite your anticipation, your sense for a battlefield stays on to tell you that, even though they're taking some losses, the 57th will utterly gut the medium lance in short order. Good on them. Meanwhile, your comrades have been sparring with ‘mechs that dwarf them, and aren't holding up all that well. Just as the 57th wrap up the Capellan Shadow Hawk, the Knight and Awesome start moving down from their supportive position to bring more to bear on the remnants. It's unsure whether Alex’s plan was foolproof or if the AI in the simulation is just foolish, but they passed right by you and the carriers without even a second glance. That puts their rear armor right in your sights.

“Jester, you're up.”

You grin behind the helmet and start returning heatsinks to functionality. Over the other frequency you speak, excitement dripping from your words like blood from the mouth of a scavenger,

“Times up, Leutnant. Follow me in…”

[comraderomeo]

Where Skin Ends Ch. 2

Updated Every Other Thursday (sorry I was late)

links: ao3 masterpost

cw: none of note

The sun finally breaks through your stupor and forces you awake. You lie groggily in bed, less regretful of your beverage choices than you expected to be. Your complimentary headache is only a mild annoyance, for which you have that Corporal to thank, not that you remember. In fact, your memory is hazy enough to leave you with no clear events, only a lingering sense of embarrassment. You check the clock and utter a "fuck" on realizing it's noon. After gathering your strength, you roll out of bed. Each layer of clothes from the day before is systematically stripped and thrown with force into the corner where a pile of undone laundry lies. At least you have a uniform for today. As you enter the bathroom, your reflection causes you to jump. It's always been an unexpected scare, but you look especially bad today, sorry to say. The cold water splashes off your back and coats your body like a sealant for restfulness. At the end of it, you feel half-normal again. Congratulations. As you dry off fully, there comes a series of bare-minimum upkeep procedures, just enough to make you not-appalling. Next, comes the uniform. It's too crinkled to pass inspection, but who gives a shit, right? They don't even have those in your company. Run your fingers through your hair that looks like it was cut with hedge trimmers, and you're done. Now, off to drills before you give Alex anything to be annoyed about.

You arrive at the simulator facility five minutes early, which you're happy with until you see the rest of your lance sitting around a map already discussing tactics. 

"Given we are defending through this sector, Hill 251 seems the most tenable for Alex and I."

"Ed, swear to God, please use words I can understand."

"It means 'defendable.'"

"Thanks, but I don't have time for a language lesson in the field."

"I will refrain, but I ask you stop calling me-"

Alex, being uninvested in the debate on words, was the first to notice you.

"Ah, Mat. Pleased to see you on time today."

"Anything for you, Lance Commander."

"Oh, that's a surprise. I figured you half an hour late at least."

You look for a rebuke to Ashe’s comment and find one. Pointing lazily to Edward, you fire back, "At least I'm not nursing a hangover in the planning room."

"You would've been out cold for a week, if it weren't for that Lyran lass."

Edward isn’t making a show of it, but you're right. He looks like his headache is about to devour him whole.

"And, who's to say it's not a migraine or some other thing?"

"Aye, could be. Could be."

"No, it is a hangover. I apologize. However, I will still be able to pilot."

You roll your eyes almost hard enough to crack your skull. It's petty but deserved. This whole ribbing thing is a waste of time anyway.

"So, can we move on to the actual thing we're being paid to do? Or, are we all just bullying me today?"

"It can be either. I couldn't give less of a shit."

"Ashe, chill please."

"Thank you, Lance Commander."

"Agreed, bickering about one's drinking habits will not decide the war nor pay well."

"Right you are, Ed. Anyway, let me fill you in on the sim we're working with."

Edward raised up as if to say something, but dropped it. Alex zoomed out on the digital map, revealing a series of arrows indicating expected troop movements. 

"We're operating on a constructed battleground, temperate climate, hilly, lightly forested. Simulation is starting on clear weather, but that might change. We, along with elements of the Lyran 57th Armored Regiment, will be defending a 'mech production facility. We will have no aerospace support nor ground reinforcements. But, the simulation will be providing long-distance artillery support on demand, so Ashe will be running double duty spotting for them and us."

The name of that armored regiment sits poorly with you, but the reason didn’t survive last night. Alex doesn't notice and points to a hill annotated on the map.

"As Edward stated, Hill 251 would be the best place for Scholar and Storm to be positioned. Meanwhile, Calm will be running spotting and skirmishes in support of the heavy tanks all throughout the foothills here. You, as always, are the hardest to place. I'm thinking myself that we should have you powered down in this more heavily forested area Southeast of where Ashe is doing her spotting. That way, you'll be able to pop in for an ambush once they engage the armored regiment. Thoughts?"

To you, it sounds less like an important assignment and more like getting sidelined. But, what are you going to do? You’ve still barely recovered from the probationary period you were on prior to Houses Steiner and Davion making their union into an all-consuming war. It's not worth risking your neck over an assignment.

"Fine, that works. It'll also give me the chance to get into melee with their support 'mechs."

"Good. I forgot to lead with the opposition, so let me clarify. We'll be up against two full lances of Capellan ‘mechs. I haven't been given a specific list of ‘mechs, but expect them on the medium to heavy side."

"Always hate it when they don’t tell us what to expect…"

"Oh, good. I was worried Ashe had secretly passed away after that much blissful silence."

"Fuck off."

"Gladly, if I weren't on contract."

"The two of you need to stop, or I will kick you out of here. The Lyran officers are going to be joining the briefing in a few minutes, so keep it to off-hours."

You and Ashe huff. Then, as if on cue, a series of finely-trimmed officers stroll into the briefing room. Their faces belie origins from all different regions of the Lyran Commonwealth, but the patches on their shoulders unify them. It takes a few more seconds than you like to admit, but you realize this is the Lyran 57th Armored. You scan through the officers, starting with the obvious Commander and rolling down the line judgmentally. That is until you reach a face far too familiar. You instinctively recoil before you can catch yourself. Hannelore smiles at you. It's hard to catch, but there's pity in her eyes too. The rest of your lance greets them half as formally as they greet you. All you can manage is a stoic nod. Alex launches into another explanation of his tactics. You mentally block this out, even though he does mention a few more details than he gave you. The tankers seem in agreeance, and start laying out their own plans in support of you, as being the center of attention is the privilege of a MechWarrior. You don't parse most of this either, which is clearly a great idea that definitely won't fuck you over down the line. The major strokes are that the artillery will be hiding behind the hills and the rest are holding the line alongside your lancemates. It's nothing groundbreaking all in all. At some point, Alex and the nameless Lyran Commander finally stop talking. It's probably been half an hour by estimates outside of your comprehension. A few more affirmations are shared between people, then the room breaks for the simulators. You take a little too long to react, lost in your lack of thought, and now you're alone with Hannelore. You look at her and mutter “oh shit…” quietly enough that it slurs beyond comprehension. She doesn't smile with the same warmness that you saw at first but with more of the pity you’d missed before.

“So, how’re you holding up?”

“Fine…”

You swallow your pride and almost gag,

“Thank you.”

“Well, I couldn't have just left you like that. It wouldn't be right.”

“Being a mercenary doesn't leave you much room to expect people to do right. I wouldn't have been mad.”

She nods, silently drawing a parallel between the two of you.

“Very true, but doesn't that make it all the better when someone proves you wrong?”

How could someone maintain this earnestness, despite knowing how cruel and violent the universe is? You can't say. It's unsettling in a way you can't describe.

“Maybe it is, but you still didn't have to.”

She deflates a little.

“Still better to have you in good condition for the drills, right?”

You nod obliquely, giving her that concession. 

“As thanks, I'll make an effort to not embarrass you again, but I make no promises I’ll be successful.”

She lets out an amused breath, even though you don’t mean that as a joke.

“Appreciated, but I'm sure you'll do fine. Even Lieutenant Ashe let slip that you're decent in a ‘mech.”

“I figured she'd rather drag herself than compliment me, but I guess all we can do is wait and see if I live up to the legend.”

“It's the weight you have to deal with when you go the ‘mech route. It's why I'm plenty happy in my humble tank crew.”

“I prefer the solitude, and it always felt to me like the inside of a tank would smell like a sauna adjacent to livestock.”

The Corporal laughs fully this time. You're glad she does but don’t show it.

“You know what? It does, but luckily you get used to it.”

“Maybe they should-”

“Mat. Corporal. You're needed in the sim bays.”

Alex stands in the doorway, looking not mad but disappointed. You don't care much that he is, but you really should get going.

[comraderomeo]

Where Skin Ends Ch. 1

Updated Every Other Thursday (hopefully)

Foreword:

Hello and welcome. This is the first piece of fiction I'm posting anywhere public since grade school, and I'm pretty excited and nervous about it. It's about a lot of things, many unsettling and esoteric, and is set in the BattleTech universe. However, I'm trying to not get too overbearing on the lore, for everyone's sake (including my own). Also, fair warning: these characters are stolen from my other, more central projects, so don't be surprised if they show up in a completely different setting. All in all, thank you for having a look!

links: ao3 masterpost

cw: alcohol abuse, vague mental illness, vomit mention

"I had just one quick glimpse out the porthole, to see the frosted dot in the distance becoming slowly massive, before the alarm went off. Sirens and red lights flashing all around put me and my lance into a run toward the 'mech bay. We stripped to reveal our um... coolant vests, and scrambled up the ladders into the cockpits of our veritable killing machines. The 'techs sped through the startup checks and then my Hatchetman, Jester, came alive. I felt Her warming me in livid spite of my wellbeing. Then, the commander came in over the comms, 'get those asses in gear, Alpha Lance! We've got Marik ‘mechs at the drop zone, so break a leg!' Jester spun around in her bay, and the world went silent."

You spent two months running patrols on some planetoid so devoid of life it couldn't even be considered backwater. Though, the mining company operating there was scared to shit of the inter-House war that had just broken out, even when it had just been rumors and speculation, so it was good money that got better daily. The patrols were so desolate. You only had the massive snow drifts and whoever was on comms to keep you company the whole time. Being so alone was perfect.

"The bottom of the bay dropped out and sent me into the fray. I came in right on top of an Atlas (you know what that is right?), and embedded my axe directly in his cockpit. Those fuckers are tough though, so it threw me off, and I got a torso-full of lasers at close range. It wasn't enough to take me down, though, and I got another chop in with a blast from my own weapons. That's when the rest of my lance got a good shot, and the ‘mech was lost in a barrage of shells and missiles and lasers. But, shrouded in the smoke coming off his melting armor, he kept coming. I used my other arm to get up close and push the weapons in his torso off angle, pulling the Atlas into a grapple. That sent his autocannon shots wildly off, but his missiles still got a bad hit on one of my lancemates. I knew at that point it was do or die, so I shoved my torso cannon right up against his viewport, and boom!!"

House Marik had arrived in just one dropship and launched an assault on the mining complex. It must’ve been producing something important, because they sent a lot of firepower at you. You had been out on patrol at the time they first popped up on sensors, and while the rest of the crew scrambled, you made the right choice to beat a hasty retreat. The truth is, you never stood a chance. In the following skirmish, it took all the skill your lance could muster and losing your hatchet arm to take down a single assault ‘mech, and the engagement had just let the other enemies slip by and annihilate the target. You probably could have taken at least two more, but not without losses.

"The blast almost tore my arm clean off, but the Atlas went tumbling into the ground, quiet as the void. Then, we turned our sights to 'mech two, a slightly smaller one that was trying to flank us. It was a bitch to hit, but we adapted-"

You ran and left them to burn. Another city to ashes.

"Mat! What the hell are you on about!?"

Your surroundings come flooding back into focus. You're at a bar somewhere you can't quite remember right now. How many drinks has it been? Last count says two, but that's beyond doubtful now, making your ability to rattle off that story coherently a feat in itself. There's a woman opposite you at the table. She's picking at a scratch in the finish and is almost certainly checked out of the conversation. You're sure there was a reason you were telling her about this encounter, and that it's extremely important that you make it impressive. However, the lack of oxygen in your brain had lost that reason paragraphs ago. Ashe, the lancemate who interrupted your flow, is certainly less far gone than you and looks bemused. She continues, "If you're going to be spinning tall tales about our exploits, at least make them believable. Who the hell’s going to think you actually chopped an Atlas in half like death from above?"

You feel the heat of embarrassment overtake that of inebriation. She could have just stayed quiet, because you have a good ending planned out and everything. What's her problem anyway? She has enough friends to go bother in the company, and her boyfriend is like right over there… somewhere. The woman across from you, who you'd neglected to get the name of like a prick, looks up with a bit of surprise and chimes in, "Oh! Sorry, I was listening, promise. It's a nice story and all. I mean, nothing like what it's actually like on the front, from what I know, but it would make a good story for one of those pulpy war novels or something."

This makes you indignant. You huff and say something stupid, "And, how would you know?"

She smiles back at you, barely wounded, and replies in practiced rhythm, "Corporal Hannelore Geelen, 57th Lyran Armored. A pleasure to meet you, MechWarrior."

Ashe laughs her head off in the background, while you- Wait are you crying? Why are you crying!? Ashe and Hannelore both look at you in different flavors of mortification. You didn’t even do anything that bad, but now you're saying sorry over and over again, while insisting you were a complete asshole. Be thankful your spontaneous bout of sorrow is quiet enough to avoid the attention of the whole damned bar. Some fear of predatoriness has clearly flitted into your mind and been amplified by alcohol, since you keep apologizing for being a dick, and a bastard, and a whore and really any bad word you can think of, without a care for relevance. The pair of voices in the background started to sound like a chorus,

"Hey hey, it's ok. The story wasn't that bad."

"Mat, what the fuck? Are you ok?"

Et cetera.

Et cetera.

Then, after some quick consideration, Ashe says something akin to "fuck it" under her breath and scoops you up into a fireman's carry to whisk you out of the public eye. That's quite the blow to the barely smoldering embers of your self esteem, and as if to spite you a fifteenth time over, the corporal you had accidentally been trying to have sex with gets up and follows along with you. A brief conversation occurs in the twilight of your perception. It's just mumbling to you really.

"I'm very sorry for this, Corporal. I can take care of them from here."

"It's no problem. I was bored anyway. Plus, I'm sure they'll be better company sober."

You pass out after that, which is likely for the best.

The air flees your lungs, as if they were cursed. You cough and writhe on the grassy hill you had been dropped upon not too softly.

“…and you didn’t have to drop them.”

“Didn’t mean to, but they’ll live.”

They’re talking about you, probably. You still feel the embarrassment lingering from the bar, but there that anger, still present and bubbling to the top. Being manhandled out of a public breakdown is a disgrace, but despite your clouded take on things, it’s clearly your fault to begin with. The figures towering over you are out of focus and haloed in blinding artificial light. Your brain cobbles together a pretty, angelic simile, which just makes you more angry. 

“Are they always like this?”

“Only in port, usually. They're a normal amount of feckless in a ‘mech.”

A mumbling starts to burble out from your lips, growing louder as you focus control into your fricatives and plosives and whatnot. It gets to a point where one of the angels stops mid-sentence to address you, “Care to share with the class, Mat?”

You think very hard about the words you want to say next. They have to be finely crafted and powerful enough to win you a quiet evening to recover from whatever this was. You take a deep breath, steel your gaze, open your mouth and rasp just barely audibly, “Fuck you. I am prestige. I outrank everyone here.”

Why do you keep claiming honor that's not yours? It's insulting.

The blindingly bright angel snickers, and its duller yet equally holy counterpart cocks its head in curiosity. 

“Is that true, Ashe? I took you for lance commander.”

“Maybe it was, but sure as fuck hasn't been for a while now.”

“Really? How's that?”

“Well, back in the Third Succession War…”

You feel their insolence radiating into you. It's unthinkable that you, the champion but inches away from nobility, the company commander with so many medals you jangled like a children's toy, the only mechwarrior with more than half a brain cell in this whole system, could be so debased. But, who are you to argue with heaven? Because, despite their angelicness being only a ruse, they can see you for what you really are in this moment.

“Wait a second, do you know if they've been drinking anything other than shots?”

“Wouldn't know. I was doing my best to avoid babysitting this time.”

“I see. But, in that case, I'll be back in a second.”

Once the other had left earshot, the remaining harbinger turns to you and speaks, “I swear to fuck, Mat. You're lucky she's nice. Otherwise, I would've dropped you in a drainage ditch and called you in M.I.A. Between the shit you and Ed pull, they wouldn't even question it.”

You say sorry.

“I don't really care about apologies. We have drills tomorrow, and you better be on point or I’ll make you as armless as your damned ‘mech.”

You say sorry again.

“I don't know what your problem is, but you really have to start thinking about how you're not the only one with them. I try to help, but I'm reaching my limit. We all are.”

You say sorry again. And, again, and again, and again, and again. You're curled into a ball now, trying to block out as much sensation as you can. A fleeting thought hits you, letting you know you'd make a good physics test question right now. It was kind of funny, but you find the idea insulting. You ask yourself where you're going from here, as if you could even stand in your state. You wonder what catastrophe will play out tomorrow, assuming tomorrow ever comes. You ponder if the ground could just swallow you here and now. A hand lightly taps you on the shoulder.

“Hey, Mat right? I got you some water. I suggest you drink now, before you regret it later.”

She set a bag of water next to you with a crinkle. It's probably one of the three litre ones they have in the stores here, the ones with the scenic river on the label. You should be thankful for this. You agree and say thank you as audibly as you can. She probably hears you. You take the water as an opportunity to distract yourself from the noise of thinking for a second and take a series of greedy sips from the plastic pouring tip. 

“Hey. Hey! Slow down! I'm not helping you back to housing if you piss yourself.”

You comply, and that's probably for the best because in your haste, you upset your stomach. You vomit about a third of the bag of water and a year’s worth of alcohol onto the grass. God knows how you were able to hold it back until now. 

“Eugh…”

“They haven't eaten, looks like.”

“Corporal, with all due respect, gross.”

Hannelore shrugs. You don't remember not eating, but you don't remember eating either. That's probably not a good sign. You try to push yourself up off the ground, so you don't have to sit next to the mess you made anymore. You do a decent job of putting your feet on the ground. The balance is harder, and you start to careen just as Ashe catches you by the shoulder.

“Alright, Sergeant [that’s you], that's enough embarrassing yourself for one night. I think it's time to get you home.”

“That's probably best for the both of you. It's a big day tomorrow.”

“Seems like it. I'll see you then, Corporal.”

“Stay safe, you two.”

You take a second to process the detail left so casually in that farewell. When you finally get it, you look at Ashe with a panic and say, “Wait, what!?” She laughs back at you and just says, “Tomorrow's going to be a weird one for you, that's a given.”

You think of all the different ways to get out of drills tomorrow. There's plenty, many of which involve some fairly unnecessary self mutilation, but you won't act on any of them. It's clear the thought of being in your warm bed all alone is too tantalizing to be interrupted by even the strongest self hatred. Outside your head, the walk home is quiet. Ashe seems to soften toward you along the way, but probably from fatigue over anything else. She leaves you alone, and you just try your best to focus on the path ahead of you.

Before you know it, you're back in your dormitory room, double locking your door behind you. You hold a heavy debate over whether you can handle a shower, but something distracts you, another stray thought. This is a bad idea, but you won’t be dissuaded. Now, you’re digging through your duffle that had been tossed into a corner and lived out of for the past couple days. Toward the bottom, there's a slightly crumpled piece of photo paper. You almost instantly notice a few creases that had appeared since the last time you saw it. That hurts you. It reminds you that this fragile memory will be gone one day. You cry again. It's ok to this time; it won't hurt anyone. I silently accompany you because, despite the fact I never held a name that wasn't yours, it’s impossible to not miss how I looked in those royal guard dress whites. It was commissioning day. She was there too, looking happy for the both of us, but like me, She also lost her name somewhere down the line. I feel bad now. I wish I could apologize for being judgemental and cruel, but you didn't hear me say it at first so can't hear me repent. I wish I could hold you and you me, so we could mourn together and maybe you would hear me say, “it's ok.” Then, things might get better, even slightly. However, that's not possible, so you suffer drunk and alone. I’m sorry. 

Thankfully, sleep catches you at some point, despite you being fully dressed and leaving your lamp on. I hope beyond hope that you have a better day tomorrow.

[comraderomeo]

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