My knife plunged into the bag, and I lifted it to my lips. Inside, my nectar. The shimmering purple liquid poured into my lips ungracefully, leaving stains trailing down my chin. There was a time where I would’ve been more exacting, making sure every last drop in these gallon bags would end up in my system.

It had been drilled into me, during my “enhanced training” that this would be my life force, that a week without it would lead to my body rejecting the implant in my head. The Empire’s eggheads had some sort of technical explanation for it, but at that point I was far too gone to care. I knew the real reason I was scavenging for these bags.

It felt so fucking good.

These days, that was hard to come by. I felt the drug’s telltale effects sink in. Slowed perception, dulled thoughts, acceptance of my fucked up situation. Even in my stupor, it was less depressing to take inventory of whether life was worth living while high out of my mind than it did while roaming the desolate rainforest.

I let my senses wither away, and briefly surrendered myself to the tide of memory. What I was allowed to remember, that is. My time as the empire’s hound was as clear as it was a blur. Like I was simply a spectator in my own life. A purpose planted deep in my brain by silicon, a soul pried open with drugs and abuse to accept whatever was given. A handler who-. I shook my head. Handler thoughts were dangerous, especially while I was getting my fix. My time being a pilot hound, being handled, were over. I looked around the decommissioned, overgrown corpse of a mech I was inside, desperate for distraction. 

The moss and vines reclaiming the metal frame even had made their way inside this Empire standard-issue DLK unit, through the spots where it had been rended open during the battle on Eucharist. The greenery and wildlife here had been my only companion for the past three years, with not even an errant radio signal reaching me. 

I let myself trace a vine winding through the cockpit, watching its path curl across a terminal screen. Long dead, I peered into the black mirror before me, and saw the ghost of a person I was.

Shaggy, dark hair draped over my shoulders, unkempt without a trip to the outpost barber since my “employment” with the Empire ended. The eyepatch concealing my right eye still wasn’t familiar to me, even after five years as a hound and three years in seclusion. Easiest way to my brain, my ass, I thought before bringing the sloshing bag of my poison back to my lips. A flash of memory, of recognition, hit me like a wave after enough time with my reflection. 

I saw a girl, myself, bright-eyed and fresh, learning piloting basics at a resistance academy. Grabbing drinks with blurry faces. Loving. Romance. I can’t remember her name. I wanted to puke. I drowned the memories in more of the shimmering liquid. That was the real benefit to this drug: smothering the memories of my past self that had been resurfacing since I escaped the empire’s grip.

Whatever chips they put in my head post-lobotomy, it ended up being their undoing. When the rebellion retreated from their base on Eucharist, they detonated an EMP to cover their escape. It had devastated the Empire’s advance, and their ensuing “analogue” retreat took days. Days I didn’t remember, since half of my brain had been turned off. It was almost terrifying that I was thinking my own thoughts when I came to, for the first time in half a decade. Either way, it decommissioned all of these frames, leaving plenty of survival kits and black boxes for a stowaway like myself to live off of. Live, I chuckled to myself, as if persisting off of scraps in solitude constitutes a life. MREs from the rebel mechs, drugs from the empire ones.

It was always unnerving plundering an empire frame, seeing familiar sights in a vessel that served as a living coffin for me. Well, the old me. DLX-37. My callsign stuck to the front of my mind, held firmly in place by the implants. I never really grew to like it. Then, there was what she called me. I shuddered. It’s not like anyone would be around to call me any name anyway. The extent of communication I got was using the emergency systems on Empire frames while my spine was plugged in, to let the robot half of my brain ping their servers. Another pencil-pusher suggestion included in my “training.” Supposedly, the eFuses in my brain would pop if I haven’t checked in with the Empire’s telemetry in enough time. When I can count the days, I do it every week. Tomorrow, I instructed myself, I will re-up. 

For now though, I slumped in the corner of the askew, broken cockpit. I all but curled around the bag of nectar in my hands. My only solace. After enough, I forget who I am. After more, I forget how to stay awake.

Sleep is suffocating. I wish they removed whatever part of my brain dreams. I am crushed by the weight of three different lives swimming around in my head. Whoever I was before. Whoever I wasn’t during. Whatever I am now. It all revolves around Her. Awake I could lie to myself as much as I wanted. Asleep, the layers are peeled back, and my brain yearns for its most basic need. Her. Handler Octavia’s form appeared before me, looming large as ever. It was just a silhouette, as if my brain rendering an image of Her, even daring to depict Her, would be sacrilege. Her hand was reaching out, and I prepared to be pet. 

My freedom cried out. I instead recoiled from the shadowy gloved hand. I’m not a pet anymore. I belong to no one. To my horror, I find that Her hand is actually around my throat. She squeezed tighter and tighter. My thrashing eventually stopped.

I jolted awake, gasping for air. I was still propped up against the wall of the same imperial mech. The sun was now up, filtering through the trees into the clearing that held this toppled giant. My stomach grumbled. I used my hunger as an excuse to scavenge instead of reckoning with my nightmare.

Rebel cockpits always felt more homey, even if they were unfamiliar to me. Well, this me. I know I was a mech pilot before, and based on some of Her teasing, as well as my results for the empire, I must’ve been some sort of ace. I don’t try to remember. It felt like, in the years away from the conditioning chambers and operating table, old memories had been leaking through whatever barrier they put up. 

I hated those visions. I hated seeing how full of a person I was. I hated knowing what my smile looked like. I hated knowing I could never be that again. That naive block of marble had been sculpted into the perfect weapon. The personhood had been chipped away in the name of efficiency. I didn’t need to be reminded.

I picked up an instant photo of this downed mech’s pilot’s family tucked into the mech’s controls. It was faded, but I could see she was a family man. My face didn’t even twitch. I landed somewhere between regret for this potentially being someone I killed, and gratitude for the MREs I was about to steal from her. Surely, her sacrifice wasn’t in vain. At least this could help me live. Live, I thought, but I didn’t chuckle this time.

The ringing in my ears was deafening by the time I finished the jerky. I cursed myself for waiting so long to ping the empire’s servers. The pressure behind my missing eye was unmistakable. The telemetry systems in the implant were begging for a server check-in, warning me that it will start the shut-down contingency without an uplink. 

The pain in my head was like cracks forming in a dam. Small streams of memories threatened to flow through. A girl who looks like me argues with her parents. Their faces are blurred. Gloved hands massage the hound’s scalp. It’s thankful. 

I sprinted out of the rebel mech and into the clearing for a few seconds, but it was clear I was in no condition to run. The ringing in my ears was accompanied by a rapid, bassy beating. I couldn’t tell what pain was from the memories and what was from the implant. I slogged through the rainforest and came across a set of giant footsteps, weathered by the years. Judging by the dimensions, an Empire frame.

I dragged myself through the path of the footsteps, coming upon a downed mech that was lighter than the typical ones of its class. It had fallen in a different manner, laid completely straight on its back. It seemed like it was standing completely upright when the EMP hit, unlike the typical bent knees and squat positions of the downed frames of Eucharist. The overgrowth of the forest was claiming the metal all the same, though.

I pulled an emergency hatch on the giant’s side and lowered myself into the roomy cockpit. There seemed to be fewer weapons on this frame than was typical of imperial DLK units. I’m sure I would’ve cared more if my brain didn’t feel like it was coming apart at the seams. As if on cue, more visions of a past life flowed in.

I’m on a beach, laughter and playful yells surround me. I’m already smiling. 

“Do you want one?” I remember hearing. I turned to the towel beside me, to see someone in a sundress fanning out two teal popsicles, offering one to me. I love her so much, I think, letting myself settle into the comfort of the memory. My vision traces up the stark white sundress. Underneath the matching wide brimmed sunhat, her face is incomprehensible. I love… who is this? It’s all muddy, I can’t know the name or what she looks like. But I could feel the love for her… I think. The gloved hands rub the hound’s temples.

I was dragged back to reality by the pounding headache. Hot tears were streaming down my flushed face. I was furious, a feeling foreign to someone living as an emotionless, isolated ghost for the past three years. An extreme welling of emotions racks my brain. She took that girl from me. Handler Octavia stripped my soul bare, emptying out any memory that wouldn’t make me more of an asset to the Empire. No matter how many flashes I get, I still can’t see their faces. I still can’t remember her name. It’s all because of Her. 

My fist had already slammed into the reinforced steel wall before I even consciously thought about it. I let the pain wash over me, it’s the least I can do to take my mind off the memories. I turned to the terminal, and saw the pilot’s chair was equipped with a neural link cable. At least I’d be able to survive today. Another flash of that girl’s not-face though, and I instead decided to get my fix from the frame’s black box first. 

I pried it open as I have hundreds of times at this point, eager to get my hands on more of my nectar. This was typically the closest thing to excitement I had, the thrill of knowing I could be out of my mind for a few hours. This time though, the urgency and dour mood dulled the excitement. There was nothing thrilling about a need like this. I plunged my knife deep, and licked the residue off the blade before bringing the bag to my lips. 

Minutes later, slumped against the wall, I finally felt a reprieve from the memories. What hadn’t subsided, though, was the pressure behind my eyepatch. I needed to ping the Empire’s servers immediately. I stumbled across to the overturned pilot’s chair, and slumped down beside it. It was time to start my other, much less pleasant routine.

I lifted my hair and guided the neural cable into the port on the back of my neck. When I was confident I had lined it up, I snapped it in, a process which still gave me goosebumps even while intoxicated on nectar. Even after the EMP, all of the DLK frames had emergency communications that could, with a small shielded battery, send a simple heartbeat signal to the Empire’s central servers. The round trip of the signal was enough to refresh the telemetry on the implant, which allowed me to keep living. Even with the initial uneasiness I had towards the process, I understood its necessity. Besides, there was nothing the Empire could glean from an almost imperceptible low-data transmission.

I felt my perception widen. My link with the frame felt vast, as if I was taking in more data than I was used to getting from these machines. I felt my senses fuse with the mech’s sensors, and felt like even in this powered down state, I could hear so much of the rainforest. I closed my eye and let the implant reach out like usual. I let the small, low frequency signal leave my mind and flow through the mech, out to the antennae spread across its cadaver. In my drug-fueled haze, I could even pretend the sensation was pleasant. I felt the signal work its way to the end, getting amplified-.

Wait.

Amplified?

I was a half-step behind, trying to figure out why that was weird even with the nectar telling me to relax. I mentally sifted through the files and records of the mech. Then I saw it.

DCL Unit. Mission reports. Saved transmission patterns.

It’s a fucking comms unit. Its backup communication gear was shielded from the EMP. I tried to shrink into myself as I felt my implant dump way more data than I intended out through the wire in my neck and into space. That’s why it was standing straight up before it fell. It was broadcasting during the operation. I wanted to slap myself. The signal no doubt contained my callsign and the serial number for my implant. They know. I started sifting through my mind about how best to hide when the inevitable empire scouting team locates the source of the signal. 

My train of thought was stopped short by a horrific realization. If the frame could send out more data, then it could receive more data. I fumbled with my hands, having trouble reacclimating to my own flesh after interfacing with the mech. I let the bag of nectar fall to the ground with a thud. I felt stupid for indulging in it before such a delicate task. My sluggish hands felt around, desperately searching for the port in the back of my neck. Before I could squeeze hard enough to unlatch it, I felt my brain get flooded.

After the advent of cybernetic implants, it didn’t take long for tinkerers to apply the principles of a DDoS attack to them. It’s simple, just a torrent of information to overload whatever chips were in a victim’s head. It was usually lethal. The next natural step was, of course, for these data-blast attacks to become commonplace as a defense measure in cybersecurity. If an unrecognized or unauthorized connection was trying to communicate with the server, just blast it to remove any potential saboteurs. 

In hindsight, it should’ve been obvious that my callsign was on the empire’s blacklist. A hound missing for years broadcasting a signal meant that the implant would’ve been in the head of a deserter, or in the hands of an enemy. Still though, I couldn’t help but curse my luck as my limbs stopped responding to me and fell limp. 

My senses were getting torched by the sheer volume of garbage data the computer in my brain was trying to process, a corrupted mosaic of too many sounds and colors to perceive. My eye filled with patterns and images I couldn’t make out. My ears rang with garbled, layered speech and unplaceable sounds. Even the aftertaste of the regrettable nectar binge faded from my tongue as all processing power was pulled to try and receive the blast of useless data. The last things my physical form was able to feel were myself slumping over, and my drug-infused drool starting to trail down my mouth. I was floating in agonizing static and before long, my conscious thoughts were snuffed out.

I blinked my eye open. I was back from oblivion. I was… alive? I couldn’t believe the empire wouldn’t have kept the attack going until it fried everything in my head. I counted myself lucky. I could return to my fulfilling life of scavenging. The front of my face was burning. I was still tethered to the same pilot’s chair by my neural port. Surely, the implant had seen enough imperial code to let me continue living. Judging by the sunrays filtering in, about three hours had passed during my micro-coma. 

Groggily, I make another attempt to sever my connection to the frame, desperate to escape the overheating sensation in my skull. Only, something was wrong. My arms weren’t responding. They twitched, hanging at my sides, but I couldn’t lift them. I closed my eye and felt around my consciousness. It still felt wide, like there was bandwidth flowing through me. I shuddered. They still had me. Why didn’t they kill me? The next sound made my skin crawl.

“Rise and shine, Dina.” My heart was in my throat. My body was stiff as I tried to crane my neck and find the source of the unmistakable voice. It only took a moment to realize the honey was being poured from inside my brain. I begged my muscles to allow me to move, ached to have any way out. I knew the longer I was listening to Her, the worse it would get.

“You don’t need to move, puppy.” The sultry voice inside my head assured me. I wanted to listen to it. I wanted to gnaw my arm off. “Just relax, for me.” I couldn’t let Her in. Not again.

“Fuck off!” I screamed through gritted teeth as much as my rigid body would allow. Spittle rained down in front of me for my first spoken words since the assault on Eucharist three years ago. I didn’t have time to come to grips that Handler Octavia’s had also been the last voice I’d heard before the EMP.

“Come now, darling,” Her poison continued to fill my ears through the wire in my neck as I shuddered at Her old pet name for me. “That’s no way to speak to your mother.”

“You’re not my fucking mom!” My jaw hurt from clenching so hard, trying to force any bit of resistance I had. 

“Oh really?” I heard Her chuckle. She must have been mic’d up on some imperial base. “It seems like some silly memories must have worked their way back into your head. Go on then, tell me your ‘real’ mother’s name.” 

The blow landed true. Hot tears streamed down my face as my already-overwhelmed mind tried to sift through memory fragments, desperate to prove Her wrong. It was just that same incomplete flash of arguing with faceless parents in a vague room. I was pulled back to reality by Her clicking Her tongue and sighing.

“That’s what I thought, darling.” Handler Octavia gloated. She was notorious across the program for Her unorthodox methods of training and handling hounds. Her philosophy dictated that a gentler touch could sharpen any gunshy captive into the perfect imperial weapon. Her whole ‘mother’ act was just that method taken to the extreme. Unfortunately for me, it worked far too well on rebellious spirits. I felt the careful house of cards that was the sense of self I’d built start to wobble.

I was a scavenger. A ronin hound, bound to no master. I had survived all this time on my own, became a real person despite the mess the empire made of my psyche. And-.

My hand twitched. I thought for a moment that I was finally breaking through whatever She was doing to hold me in place, but I wasn’t in control. I watched in horror as my arm reached down, against my will. I was a puppet, and the electricity coursing through my neurons was the string.

“I’m sorry darling, you know I never like to do this,” She cooed, making me curse myself for letting it soothe me, “but I know you’ve been so alone and afraid on that wretched planet. You need some guidance.” Terror gripped me as I saw where she was puppeteering my hand towards.

“Let go of me!” I screamed, the heat of fury wracking my body. I had never known that such fine control of my body through a data uplink was possible. 

“I noticed through your ocular data,” Handler Octavia said, brushing off my resistance, “this little thing down here.” Using my hand, she grabbed the pouch of nectar. “You always did love this neuroablative agent. And judging by your vitals, it seems like you’ve already gotten a head start. Such a good girl for keeping up with your regimen.”

I shuddered as I watched my own hand bring the bag up to face level, careful not to spill any. I could feel my addiction getting the better of me, even in such dire circumstances. The way the liquid shimmered in the bag, sloshing from side to side. Five years as a hound, three years free. This was the common thread. I could feel myself start to salivate.

“I won’t make you drink it.” Handler Octavia said, matter-of-factly.

It took everything I had to fight my instinct to whine. Then relief washed over me. I’m not doomed yet.

“I won’t drink it. I know what you do when I’m high on this.” I spat, rejuvenated.

“Even though it makes you so happy?” Handler Octavia stifled a giggle.

“I’ll keep my freedom, thanks.” I smirked, confident. The handler’s hubris would be Her undoing. Her reluctance to use a firm hand may let me escape.

“Your freedom, is it?” She mocked, and I felt like I could feel Her smile burning in my brain. “Your life of scrounging scraps in an abandoned rainforest? Be serious. I can give you purpose again, darling.”

“Fuck off, I’ll-, I’ll-” I desperately searched for the sharpest words I could find, “I’ll rejoin the rebellion!”

There was a beat of silence, like my ex-Handler was reeling. I was winning, I could-.

An eruption of high-pitched laughter on the other line ruptured my train of thought.

“Oh dear, you really have been alone down there, haven’t you?” She condescended. “That little rebellion,” Her words dripped with venom, “did not last long after Eucharist. They were crushed, and your efforts were instrumental, my sweet pup.”

Something in me broke. It was like the dam that the empire had built in my mind came down for just a moment, allowing some memories from the before times to seep through. Once, I had conviction. That rebellious spirit got me to enlist in the first place. I remembered the girl on the beach, still faceless. I remembered camaraderie in the barracks, the thrill of each incremental victory, the agony of every defeat. I thought about the faceless soldiers I could almost remember. How many of them did I kill?

My brain wouldn’t let me give myself the benefit of the doubt. I was brainwashed, sure, but surely I could’ve resisted more. Surely I could’ve fought back against the poison Handler Octavia was pouring into my ears. Surely I could’ve snapped out of it when I killed my first rebel, a former comrade. 

I couldn’t forgive myself. It was better when I didn’t remember.

I put the bag to my lips.

I didn’t even register surprise that Handler Octavia had unlocked my movement again. I just needed to forget. It stung all the more that I could’ve unplugged the neural link. Once the nectar hit my tongue, I didn’t care.

“Good girl, darling. Sink back into me.” I heard.

I wanted to protest, even still. My lips were busy guzzling whatever I could get. The haze was settling. I felt those old memory fragments dissolve in the nectar as I finished what was left in the pouch. I lazily dropped the empty bag, and watched it unceremoniously float to the ground.

I was woozy. Feeling Her presence and the drug coursing through my system, I was more alive than I had felt in three long, lonesome years.

I felt a familiar sensation on top of my head. Her gloved hands. The leather sifted through my hair to reach my scalp. My eye darted around, terrified that it may see Her. No dice.

“You know,” I heard in Her voice, now in a lower tone, “these implants are really something. Even from here I can provide you with the comfort I know you need.”

I moaned involuntarily. The phantom sensations weren’t nearly as potent as when Her actual gloved hands would massage my head during conditioning sessions. Without the needles, without the screen in front of me, burrowing instructions into my head, my mind wasn’t being contorted nearly as much as usual. But, after so long away, I’d take anything I could get from Her.

“My beautiful, sweet hound. I was worried sick about you. Don’t worry, Mother is here.” I heard through the haze. I felt pleasure wrack my brain, hanging on every word. It wasn’t just my head though. My womanhood grew at the sound of Her voice, straining against the tight jumpsuit I had scavenged. 

“My, my,” Her voice was beautiful. I could feel it unmaking me. “My poor pup, you must’ve been so needy without your Mother.”

She was right. She was always right. Without Her, I hadn’t been able to get any carnal satisfaction in my agonizing time on Eucharist. My own hand was nothing compared to Her touch, or even Her voice. The drug obliterated my inhibition, and I couldn’t stop myself from replying.

“Y-yes Mother.” It was over. I knew I’d be returning to my life as a hound under Her. But She was right. Even that un-life was greater than pretending to be free, “living” as a scavenger. She could give me purpose. If freedom is doing what you want, then I didn’t want anything more than Her. She would set me free.

“There we go, welcome back darling,” I could feel Her glee through Her tone. Instead of terrifying me, it soothed me. Mother was above me. All was right with the world.

The phantom massaging on my head grew more intense, and it almost felt like those gloved fingers were reaching inside my head. I felt them prodding, pushing out those traumatic experiences, replacing them with a Mother’s love. I would do anything for Her. I need to do anything for Her.

“You’re taking it so well,” Her praise was electric. I kissed my puny freedom goodbye. “Aren’t you tired after pretending to be a person for so long? Having to fend for yourself? You deserve to relax, sweet pup.” She was right, as usual. I was far too tired. I wanted Her to keep thinking for me.

“Yes Mother.” I drooled. Agreeing with Her felt good. I hoped she’d write more new truths unto me.

“My gentle hound. How I’ve missed you so. My little ace.” My malleable head didn’t even register the slight mockery in Her voice. I just let the pleasure of Her words and praise wash over me. “You are needed.”

Needed. After so long alone, it felt like a foreign concept. But Mother made everything understandable for me.

“This war is over, yes, but conquest awaits us. We can spread our empire’s beauty further. You’ll rejoin me, yes?” She posed a farce of a question, fully knowing I was too far gone to even consider.

“Y-yes Mother!” I all but screamed, head tilted back in reverence. My stomach turned, my thoughts twisted. Everything else in my being was being drowned by Her. My dick strained against the jumpsuit. I felt my underwear stretch to its limit.

I was inside a frame, listening to Her. Just like I had been for so long. Her familiar needle found its groove as if my mind was a well-worn record. My eye rolled back.

“Then break all over again for me. Give in, darling. Show your loyalty.” The commands were gospel. When She said ‘give in’, I knew what that meant. The reflex had been drilled into me for years, linking absolute submission to climax. It felt like lightning was traveling from the port in my neck, to my brain and out towards every neuron in my body. Impure, unholy rapture. Mother’s warmth, straight from the neural link, enveloped and smothered every thought not devoted to Her. My strings were pulled taut.

As if my reality warped around Her words, I came, and felt three years of freedom leave my body in a thin watery mess. I writhed, body convulsing as waves of pleasure coursed through me. Her warmth grew into a blaze, a cleansing flame that burned away anything but Her precious hound. Even in my stupor, things never felt so clear. I needed Mother.

She wasn’t there, but I could feel Her. I could feel myself kneeling before Her, prostrating myself in apology for ever straying from Her path. 

I started fading. I heard Her barking orders to someone in the background, but I couldn’t grasp what they were. I knew when I awoke I’d start life anew. There was one last heavenly sound, this time directed at me.

“See you soon, darling.”