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#mecha pilot
victusinveritas · 3 months
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disk28 · 3 months
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clowngirl-bebop · 5 months
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Something something yuri dogfighting
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cardstockcaster · 2 months
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Finally did art of my Lancer Group im DMIng for! Running In Golden Flame Act 1 me (by @vexwerewolf) with extra bonus stuff (by me) for my friends
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stripesonmidnight · 4 months
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Sync || Lancer || F/F
archiveofourown.org/works/51838951 18+ Pilot Black Moon stumbles upon an eldritch NHP inside of a dangerous mech she gets a crush on. Lots of ichor/slime girl stuff, and hot mech action.
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blueribbs · 2 months
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in the middle of a firefight, veronica's situation turns from bad to worse. del is there to tell her what to do
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twilighthomunculusart · 5 months
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Commission for ttrpg DM @/callmecombine on discord who’s looking for players (client requested I add that to the description)
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whereshadowsthrive · 6 months
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Cyg's definitely a grump before the morning cup of caffeine
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zhjake · 2 years
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sketches of one of my Lancer pilots, ✧・゚:* 𝒮𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓀𝓁𝑒 𝐿♡𝓋𝑒𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒*:・゚✧back by popular demand
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aethelaum-pages · 8 months
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Armistice
The Armistice is a Pilot bar. Everyone is welcome, of course, but when your establishment is located half a mile from the Mid-South Gate, you attract a lot of Pilots who want to drink off their post operation stress. Pilots like Onager.
She's much like every other Pilot in the bar – staring dumbly into her drink, nothing behind her eyes until Vesa, the orange-haired bartender, snaps her fingers and she sits bolt upright, eyes wheeling around as she remembers how her Handler used to do that and the conditioning kicks in. Vesa doesn't do it again. The bartender's seen that look before. If the look hadn't given Onager away as a Pilot, the dark, swirling neck tattoos surrounding a jagged mess of interface ports on the back of her neck would have.
Volmjir III was plagued by sandstorms. The high walls surrounding the few cities the planet had did a solid job keeping the sand mostly out, but development outside the periphery was difficult, as the tiny grains had a knack for working themselves into mechanical joints. Enter the biolith rigs: looming biomechanical monstrosities made of melded metal and flesh. Owing to their thick skin and armor plating, they fielded much better outside the walls, as well as on hundreds of other "difficult" planets.
Every biolith was a veritable colony of both micro and macro-organisms, all lab-grown and designed for mutually beneficial relationships. The crucial flaw, however, was their inability to distinguish between humans. To them, while they were in active mode, everything that moved was a target, because training them to slaughter everything was easier and cheaper.
This problem was solved with the Pilots: neurochemically conditioned humans who rode inside each rig's protective shell and acted as a living targeting unit for the machine. A human, linked to the brain matter of the biolith through external neurons and arteries, could detect a target, process it, and approve a kill order faster than any mechanical computer and with more reliability than wetware – and receive a massive dopamine reward for each confirmed hit. A trained Pilot was essential to the successful operation of each rig, and the most valuable piece of the weapon.
Wars end. Pilots age and retire young because the stress and emotional highs of Piloting a biolith take a toll on the brain and the dopamine rush from driving a massive cannon shell through an enemy becomes hard to replicate. Many Pilots find themselves chasing anything that makes them feel good to try to feel that again.
Onager sleeps under a weighted blanket half her weight and wears a compression vest under her duster – she needs the feeling of the biolith's muscular internal sac squeezing around her, fleshy walls compressing her arms to her sides, thick secretions slicking her dark wolfcut against her unused eyes, to feel comfortable. She feels exposed without the pressure.
Her curiously absent drinking partner Ballista, who she trained with, feels phantom shoulder cannons and wears knee and ankle braces and has for years. Being pinned down and having her biolith panic and clamp down on her with enough force to liquify a normal human, messing up her legs, wasn't enough to disqualify her brilliant brain from the NKD's Pilot program. When someone talks to her, she still subconsciously pulls back her left wrist to extend the arm-mounted blade she no longer has.
When they drink together, they usually have about a dozen drinks each, each setting one aside for Mortari and drinking it last. They never found her.
Onager stares lifelessly into her drink, completely still except for her jerking eyes, which lurch back and forth in her head, scanning across a nonexistent targeting interface. Vesa worries about her. Most Pilots aren't the most mentally stable after a career of operating a rig, but Onager was different. Pilots who stayed inside too long were at risk of developing rig-rot: their brain functions would shuffle with the rig's, causing loss of brain function when extracted.
"Onager?" Vesa knew her name. It was tattooed on the back of her right hand, her serial number on her left. "Are you alright?" No response. Vesa sighed.
"KV846?" Onager's head snapped up, the light returning to her eyes as she heard her serial number.
"Command-ready, ma'am." The Pilot didn't recognize her. She drank here almost every night, but the bartender was just another unimportant face. Vesa had taken a course on how to help rotted Pilots. The phrases were just as burned into her head as they were to each Pilot she saw.
“Run internal diagnostics and report.” She felt bad to activate Onager’s conditioning, but she didn’t know how else to reach her.
"I feel... wrong." That made sense. Formerly rig-rotted Pilots pulled from their bioliths described the feeling as similar to losing a limb and experiencing constant phantom limb for an entire second body.
"Here." Vesa laid her hand on the bar, and Onager practically snatched it up, serial number twisting as she squeezed it.
"It hurts." Her voice was thoroughly broken, even compared to other Pilots Vesa had helped.
The bartender just nodded. "I know."
...
Onager cries in her sleep sometimes. When she does, Vesa holds her close and squeezes her. She makes wonderful breakfasts on those mornings. She knows Onager isn't used to eating anything besides NKD rations yet. She loves pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries – expensive to get this far from agricultural worlds, but worth it for the way she laughs and smiles.
Legally, they had no connection. How could they? Onager didn't exist and Vesa had died. In every other manner, though, they never needed one.
They both have new lives. Vesa designs buildings, and Onager helps build them. They save money to go somewhere nicer – A beautiful world like Hiho VII, perhaps. It's forested and temperate, and housing isn't very expensive.
Rig-rot never fully goes away in most cases. Onager still has bad days. She wakes up shaking and sweaty or freezes up in the middle of tasks, crushed by the immense feeling of everything being wrong. But Vesa is there to take her hand and rub her thumb gently, and when Onager looks at her lover her eyes don't flick up and right to access the threat assessment menu anymore.
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abatilus · 2 months
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Bunch of lancer pilots!!
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motionjames · 5 months
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mech pilot who remembers growing up on a farm and there were cows that chewed at their jacket and lots of grass and the sweet smell of pastries because the factory down the way dumped their goods off for the cows to eat so everything smelled like honey. Everything was soft and kind but now it is different and the metal smells different because its inside them too. The machine is a powerful one, it can move faster than a person and kill real good but because of that the pilot has to be more that human. They get wires in them when their hand gets smashed in a fight. It's faster than the old one and the machine is easier to operate and the company name doesnt look too bad but it's a little sad because the old hand had a scar from when their dog bit them before they were tamed, when they were wild and young and brash. with time the dog became loyal and licked that scar but now it's gone and the sensation is hard to remember. The pilot gets some implants and have to take a drug to acclimate to it all. The pain goes away. the scent of hay is long gone. It gets harder to hear thunderstorms in the gunfire or wind in the scream of the joints. everything is coated metallic until it's all the same. they cant taste food and it's too boring to eat something you cant taste so they settle with energy packs now. Most of their stomach is destroyed anyways.
The horror never sets in because the pilot cant dream anymore. They could close their eyes and return home and smell the old pasteries the cows ate for breakfast in that careless world but now it's all blank because these things can never be remembered the same way again. Their eyes can see the heat in things that need to be killed and their nerves are shot from the medication, which actually makes new implants much easier to install. Lately they've suspected that everything outside of the cockpit has been a dream, that nothing put here has ever really mattered, that theres no point to eating since they cant feel hunger anyway.
It is easier to sleep in the cockpit. It's easier to forget how to dream. But theres an echoing in the tin can that's not unlike a dog barking and a sting as bad as a bite and when the metal man wakes theres a patch of hot sweat between their back and the plug seat. The fog returns. But the sting remains. The mech pilot cant remember where it came from.
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disk28 · 12 days
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katiajewelbox · 3 months
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Another of the strong female characters in the 90's anime Vision of Escaflowne, Eriya is a leopard-woman who pilots the Teiring Guymelef for the greedy Zaibach Empire. She's motivated by love for her guardian Folken and her twin sister Nariya. The beast people on Gaea face a lot of persecution and discrimination from humans, which has made Eriya into a rather hostile person.
My Picmix features official animation stills along with my digital edits.
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hazediver · 6 months
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Sephy was tired.
She had slept 16 hours, but she was tired. She was always tired, this wasn't new, and maybe, sometimes, it wasn't annoying, but today it was. Today she had to work, she had to get up and do what the company told her to do, be their good little HAZED and kill anything they threw her at.
She got out of bed, pushing her stuffed rabbit to the side. Her stomach turned - too fast, had to slow down. Gotta remember not to go that quickly, throwing up on her bedsheets wasn't a fun way to start her day, and besides, she didn't have the cash to buy new ones again - rent was due.
The notification light on her phone blinked, probably her handler, a medication reminder, and a debt collector, if she had to guess. At least one of those were useful.
She fumbled around, looking for her medbag. The dim light filtered through the blinds didn't help any, but “bright lights” and “I just woke up” didn't mix - best case scenario she get a migraine, worst case scenario, a seizure. She found the autoinjector, pulled up the side of her nightgown, grit her teeth, and jabbed the device into her thigh.
It hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt so much, she wanted to cry.
At least it was better than being sick.
She changed - from the nightgown into her pilot suit, plugging in the neural adapters into the ring of plugs around her neck. The third-generation dive system was supposed to be safer. It was supposed to be easier. But it made her sick - she was the only HAZED that got sick.
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charlatan-queen · 11 months
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Came up with a mecha shitpost idea, A mecha pilot who's just unhinged crazy and gets Results at great cost, often with large consequences from her own command. ended up doodling a couple comics with her, I hope you enjoy
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