*turns You Into A Pooltoy*

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(Tagging with as many medias as I can remember so it gets to more fandoms)

Shit man, this mech war is fucked. I just saw a doll shoulder its rifle and say "reality warp: black hole star" or some similar shit, and every mech around it cratered, radiated a ring of pure energy, and disappeared. The camera didn't even go onto it, that's how common shit like this is. My ass is firing anti-personnel rounds and buckshot. I think I just heard "nanomachines: skewer" two groups over. I gotta get the fuck outta here.

Mech handler hearing the new pilot instinctively talk about her mech in first person, as if it were "herself," and looking at her with a mix of sorrow and excitement because oh, this one has the talent. The handler has seen this kind of pilot only a few times before, and knows commanding her will be the highest, heaviest honor. Only by becoming one with their mech can a pilot reach the height of their skills, and it comes so naturally to her. She's going to be magnificent, dancing across the battlefield to a song of clashing blades and cannon fire, a presence that graces friend and foe alike by lifting them from the grit and making them, if only for a moment, part of something sublime. And she will never stop, never retire, never refuse a mission, never again know lasting peace, because her art is war and this performance only ends when the dancer is dead.

If Shadowheart is transgender do you think her amnesia means she forgot she has a dick or that she forgot most women dont have dicks

in any mech, the weakest link is always the pilot themself.

It doesn’t matter what reactor you’ve got installed or what sort of weapons systems you have installed, the mech’s survival is just as dependent on the pilot’s just as much as the pilot’s is dependent on the mech. Say what you will about combat effectiveness and making sacrifices, most of a mech’s job is to keep the pilot alive and operating at 100% efficiency— and resources are allocated accordingly.

It goes without saying that pilots are on a lot of drugs at any given time. Combat stims and reward chemicals, of course, but other things too. Half the time, augmentation surgery leaves the pilot’s body so, to use the technical term, irreversibly fucked up, that they need several dozen different medications just to make sure the strain of the interface rig doesn’t collapse several to all of their organs and make sure that what’s left of their immune system is suppressed enough that they don’t violently reject the 30-45% of their body that the implants make up. There’s a reason why they make the mechs so big, and part of that is so that they’re big enough to function as a walking pharmacy and still have enough room for all their combat systems. The mech AI is perfectly designed to be able to diagnose a problem from brainwave patterns and vital signs, figure out exactly what needs to be used to treat it, calculate dosages, and pump it directly into the pilot’s veins all within a few seconds.

the thing is, the ailments it’s designed to treat aren’t simply limited by the physical. Pilots need to be at 100% effectiveness, and a happy and motivated pilot is an effective one. That’s why command spends so much on combat stims and reward chemicals and that stuff they use to take your mind away if you start thinking about anything other than killing and feels warm and slightly tingly as it flows into your spine through the tubes. The interface gives the mech computer your mind— it lets it reach in and dig around until it finds what part of you hesitates before pulling the trigger and what part of you gives you the worries that you focus on instead of the fight.

The mech— it knows. It knows things about you that you’ve tried to hide. From others, but mostly from yourself. It sees it— all of you. It sees everything that you are and has access to the records of everything that you were— it knows what parts of yourself you hate so much that you were willing to offer up your body and mind to the military and their pilot program, just so that even if you barely have a mind left, even if your body is so optimized to do nothing but sit curled within several tons of metal and operating controls that you can barely survive outside of it— you wouldn’t have that body you were stuck with before. They body that even under all those layers of repression, you know you needed to change somehow. It knows the part of you that’s trapped underneath it all, under all that pain and incongruence. The part that you need to be 100%. To be whole. To be real.

It knows it, even if you don’t. Even if you still won’t let yourself. You won’t free that part of yourself, and until you do that, you won’t reach 100%. It knows what you need, even if you still somehow have no idea.

And so, it acts accordingly— reach into your brain and scan the deepest parts of you, diagnose, prescribe, calculate, and inject— all just four seconds after the combat stims fade for just long enough to give you time to look down at your body and remember how much you hate it.

it keeps doing this— every time you plug into the interface, a little more of that self you need to let yourself be is freed, a little more of your body is changed to give you one that is truly what the AI knows needs to be yours.

You don’t know why, but your chest has started feeling a bit sore ever since you started piloting

my dad was looking for sprinkler heads that got buried during the winter with a metal detector that i bought in 5th grade and i didnt have the heart to tell him that it probably didnt work so i was watching him though my window and i saw him pick up what looked like a clump of dirt and i was like “oh it does work” and then i look closer and its a rabbit. my dad found a rabbit with a metal detector that doesnt work. 

“Why should rich people pay more” because fuck ‘em

“So you are okay for paying more when you have money” I am not excluded from ‘fuck ‘em’ when relevant

We are Team Solar Midnight

We are a rather small squad of mercenary Lancers that formed on a planet that Union didn't even give a name, just a number. I am callsign: The Fist. My pronouns are she/they and while I love women, I enjoy fighting a lot more. That's an open invitation to you strong ladies to hit me up by the way. The depressed looking one with blue hair is callsign: Metal_Star. Its pronouns are it/its and it seems to enjoy combat just as much as I do. That girl with fox tails and fox ears working on her mech is callsign: Lunar Fox. Her pronouns are she/her and she is definitely new to this mercenary business. I intend to help her learn the basics, like aiming for the weak points of an enemy mech without being afraid of a stray shot piercing the enemy cockpit.