Months have passed.

Lapis is aware of the movement of time only in abstract. Things occur. Day and night continue their rotation. Faces and voices filter in and out. Much of this slips freely through her mind. Holes have been eaten into it, like moths eating old fabric. Something else she “knows” but does not register. Only the moment matters.

In this moment, Lapis sits in an upholstered leather seat, the city lights outside twinkling across the latex dress she wears as she passes them. The bright points sting her eyes, and so she screws them shut. She can’t keep the warble of the limo’s electric engine from her ears, however. It calls to mind an older, harsher noise. The guttural snarl of a different engine, belching fumes, so loud it shook through the hot metal entombing her-

Lapis shifts, getting a gentle squeak from the latex. A current noise. A noise that means love. It isn’t that her memory is fading. More that she wishes what she did remember would fall into those rends in her mind, as well.

A finger traces the skin below Lapis’s collar. “Settle, pet.”

The former pilot exhales, letting herself melt into the seat. Everything is okay. Everything makes sense. Ma’am is here. She’s seated beside Lapis in the back of the limo, tall and resplendent in an elegant dark green ball gown, deep brown hair styled in waves down Her toned back. Out of uniform She’s almost unrecognizable, and even more radiant. Lapis feels a deep gnawing shame for having once called Her “Sir”. One of many old, undesirable habits Ma’am has excised from her, in the many months since She’d first reached a merciful hand down into the wreckage of whoever Lapis was and pulled her free.

Ma’am turns Her eyes forward, into the rearview mirror. Lapis, leashed in mind as much as body, looks as well, just in time to see the limo driver’s eyes flick away from them. An old jazz song tumbles from the radio, another contributor to Lapis’s growing overstimulation.

“Quite a display,” Ma’am asks, nodding to the distant fireworks springing up over the skyline ahead and bursting white, violet, and green in the night sky. “Isn’t it?”

“Certainly is, Ma’am,” he replies. His attention is now fixed on the crowded road ahead.

“A little preemptive,” She muses. Her voice, more than any attire, is what identifies Her. Smooth and wizened, like well aged liquor. “But then, I hear the troops appreciate it.”

He admits, flatly, “I’ve not been following the war, Ma’am.”

She gives a thoughtful hum, before Her eyes drift to Lapis. The once-pilot straightens, eager for Ma’am’s appraisal. Whether there’s a war or not, regardless who wins or how, is all background radiation, largely escaping her notice. Only Ma’am’s word holds weight, and it’s all the weight in the world.

Ma’am examines her a moment, a knowing flicker in Her eyes. Nothing escapes Her notice. “Turn to the news,” She says. “And lower the volume.”

He does as instructed. Lapis feels her shoulders loosen as the radio’s cacophony changes to a female newscaster’s clear voice. “...driven further northeast, towards the Imperial core. The Coalition, led by Southreach, has now begun retaking the territory along Southreach’s northern border, a front which had been locked in stalemate for over a year.”

The words stir something that doesn’t quite feel like memory in Lapis’s mind. More like images recalled from a dream, or hallucinations during an episode of sleep paralysis. Displays she’d been forced to watch as her body turned to cement around her. Before this discomfort can take hold, however, she notices the satisfied smile on Ma’am’s lips. Everything is okay again. It can only be okay. Ma’am is pleased.

“While there hasn’t yet been any formal talk of surrender,” continues the broadcast, “the recent string of victories over the Empire’ forces have many confident the end of the war is in sight. Celebrations both informal and official have-”

The limo turns off the main road and pulls up outside of a bustling establishment, throngs of well-dressed party goers filtering through the glass doors. Lapis bristles at the thought of entering with them. This is smoothed when Ma’am takes her chin in firm but gentle fingers, and turns her face to meet Hers. Lapis shudders at the tingling warmth of Her touch.

Ma’am whispers, a current pulling Lapis along, “You have always fought for Southreach.”

“I have always fought for Southreach,” Lapis shakily repeats. The intended meaning of these words passes through her mind untouched. She’s assigned them her own meaning. They’re a life raft upon which she can rest, no matter how rough the waters around her might become. She clings to them as they leave the limo, Ma’am leading her gently by her leather leash, and they enter the crowd. Noise and movement and scent barrage her all around- again it calls to mind figments from another life, artillery whistling down on her the fumes of engine and autocannon smoke the cockpit shaking around her, but none of that is real. Not anymore. Just old shrapnel still lodged in her nerves. She screws her eyes shut and focuses on Truth- the slight tension on her leash, pulling her to safety.

The noise never abates but does lessen. Lapis feels the crowd give way, not pressed so close around her. Overwhelming colognes and perfumes disperse for smells of charcuterie and fruit. Ma’am guides her down into a plush chair. “Look,” She whispers.

Lapis opens her eyes. Around them, yawning wide like a cavern, is an illustrious ballroom, crystalline chandeliers glittering over mahogany floors and rows of tables laden with trays of food and pitchers of drink. The mob outside has dispersed into several smaller clusters, all dressed in suits and gowns so fine Lapis almost feels she’s watching them through a screen. Surely she can’t occupy the same space as these glittering sequins and impeccable tailoring. She only knows she does because every so often, one of those immaculately preened heads turns her way. Sometimes just to steal a glance before looking hastily away, as if to pretend they hadn’t seen. Sometimes their stare lingers.

Lapis sits up in her chair. Ma’am told her she would receive such attention. In fact, it’s good that she does. The former pilot stands out, even here. Dark blue hair tumbling down her back, just barely hiding the bio-ports along her spine left uncovered by a comparatively revealing latex dress. The air, buzzing as it is, tingles against her exposed back and knees, against her cheeks, even her eyes faintly itch. She squirms, trying to bring the way the latex suctions to her body into focus. Trying to make it speak to her, reassure her in its creaking voice. 

Ma’am hooks a finger into the loop at the front of her collar. “Pet,” She whispers.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.” Along the walls- over the table they sit at, sequestered away near one corner of the ballroom- hangs the banner of Sourthreach, a silver coyote baying to an emerald moon. Lapis must be presentable for Southreach. For Ma’am. The nation’s name is repeated like a prayer in news broadcasts, its victories over the Empire venerated like acts of the divine. But Lapis knows the Truth. It’s been worked into her mind and body with expert hands. It’s been inscribed upon her soul, a holy text written and sealed up within her being. Truth is this: the one true Goddess, for Whom Southreach and its glories are only pretty accoutruments, sits across from Lapis, appraising her with dark eyes.

A waiter passes by, delivering a glass of rosé to each of them. On a stage near the back of the ballroom, a classical band is setting up to play. Tugging on Lapis’s leash, Ma’am pulls her up and towards the food tables. It starts quickly. Eyes catching onto Ma’am as She passes, then snapping to Lapis, following in Her gravity. While their eyes are on Her, however, Lapis sees the flashes of reverence there. They cut their own chatter to acknowledge her- “Commander Beladama. Lovely to see You, Commander. Congratulations, Commander.” Their praise follows Her, Lapis shuddering as it stirs around her in Her wake. A woman follows them to the food table, lavishing more compliments on Her. Ma’am accepts with a thin smile and a flicker of pride, deep in the rich umbral brown of Her eyes.

“None of us could believe Your proposal,” babbles the admirer, hovering with them. She stands just a little too close for Lapis’s liking. As she speaks, she gesticulates erratically, her fingertips brushing just a little too close to Ma’am’s shoulders. “It seemed like such a gamble! Effectively turning the Empire’s own programs against them! But gods,” she says, turning to Lapis. “It certainly seems to have worked.”

Ma’am gives a smokey voiced chuckle as she loads a small porcelain plate with grapes and slivers of cured meat. “Oh, you of little faith, hm?”

“And such a pretty thing, too.” The woman drifts, almost imperceptibly, towards Lapis. The former pilot relaxes. Ma’am’s attention is for her. However, Ma’am also wants her to receive attention. Pet, project, prize. “Gods,” the woman mutters, “how is she still so pretty after all that…” Lapis’s heart thrills. Especially as the woman slips a hand behind her back, and teases a manicured nail around the bio-port at the base of her spine. 

Lapis trembles. Faint moist warmth blooms between her legs.

“Sergeant,” warns Ma’ams, Her eyes sharpening to a dagger glare. “Do not touch My subject.”

This does nothing to help that euphoric warmth pooling around Lapis’s clit.

The woman shrinks away, but the evening has only begun. Ma’am roams from group to group, the end of Lapis’s leash looped around Her fingers. At every stop, the same sequence of events: Ma’am integrates Herself into a conversation. Attention becomes split between Her, and Her pet, the girl in the scant latex dress, boots, and gloves which reach halfway up her biceps, dark blue to match her hair. Someone mentions the program. Ma’am’s stroke of genius which threw the Empire’s war machine off balance. Stealing their tech and their ace pilots to repurpose against them. All eyes return to Her. “It’s one for the history books, Commander; we couldn’t believe it worked at first, but then it kept working, didn’t it?” The well of Her presence, Her glories, pulls them in as well, holds them just as rapt in Her power.

Lapis shakily exhales. She is adjacent to this- honours of honours! Ecstasy of ecstasies! To be an accessory dangling from the Saviour’s glory is still to be part of Her regalia. The people know it, too. They remark upon Lapis, gesture about her, admire her. They don’t touch, though. Lapis is only for Ma’am. Bliss swirls in her head, strong enough to stave off the barrage of sensory overload. Her lips twist their way into spacey smile.

Someone asks, “Is she alright?”

“She isn’t used to so much bustle,” Ma’am explains, brushing Her fingertips down Lapis’s bare shoulder. Her touch tingles against the former pilot’s skin. “She hasn’t gotten to many parties lately, I’m afraid.” A round of laughter.

“Why the latex?”

“Her skin is highly sensitive. A result of Imperial medical experiments.” Ma’am has every answer waiting on Her tongue, lined up like bullets in a magazine. She wields Truth. She exhales it as She speaks. It shimmers in the night sky of Her eyes. “The latex provides a baseline level of consistent stimulus to ground her in. It soothes her, basically.” 

They nod, mutter remarks. Lapis beams, ecstatic to be of use. Even as a prop to be displayed, a doll silently posed, she helps Ma’am spread Her Truth.

“Are all of them… like that?”

Ma’am lets Her touch linger just above Lapis’s glove. “They are all former Imperial assets, yes.”

A new round of chatter breaks out. Admonishments and disgust for the Empire’s cruelty. Lapis does not remember these experiments. They happened during that hazy time when she still fought, that roil of dreams and visions. She knows they happened, however, because Ma’am’s touch buzzes on her skin like a vibrator, even after She pulls Her hand away. Truth, marking her. 

“I hear they can’t even eat anymore,” one man remarks. “They have to be fed nutrient slurry or some damn thing.”

Ma’am’s smile widens. Plucking a grape from its stem, She brings it to Lapis’s lips. Brushes its cool, dew speckled skin ever so lightly against them. It takes everything Lapis has to stifle a moan as a flush runs up her neck. The former pilot parts her lips. Ma’am pops the grape inside, and Lapis chews slowly. Not savouring the taste or texture, as they burn so intensely in her mouth that she can hardly make sense of them. Rather, she paces herself so as to not be overwhelmed. So as to not squirm or gasp. She must be a good display piece for Ma’am.

“As you can see,” Ma’am concludes, “we’ve made considerable progress with her rehabilitation.”

Soon Ma’am leads Lapis back to their table. The pilot’s joy at being of use fades to relief at being removed from the noise. Ma’am sees this, and has a remedy at the ready. She takes Lapis’s chin between Her thumb and forefinger, and the pilot opens her mouth for Ma’am to pour a little rosé in. Lapis feels its sickly sweet burn more than she tastes it. She settles back in her seat, finding comfort again in the soft squeak of her latex. It’s been a companion to her, a different relationship from what she has with her mistress. Like Lapis, the latex is an ornament, pretty but lower. They commiserate in this way, she feels, the tight material bonding to her skin.

Their peace is disturbed by a click of high heels approaching their table. An involuntary tremble slips through Lapis, drawn out by the sharpness of the sound. “Minerva,” a woman crows. “I heard you were here!”

“Brianne.” Ma’am swirls Her rosé slowly in its glass. “I should hope you have.”

“My, humble as always.” The intruder sets a hand on their table, long silver nails tapping on the varnished wood- Lapis flinches at their clattering rhythm. “And this must be Your… subject.”

Ma’am glances up at her with a polite smile. “Lapis, yes.”

Lapis follows Her gaze to see the tall, severe-featured woman looming over them. She watches the pilot in turn with a cocked brow. “She seems a bit jumpy for a pilot.”

“Retired pilot, officer,” Ma’am corrects her. “She was our first subject. At that point, High Command only wanted to see if it could be done. Whether or not she could still fight wasn’t a priority.”

“I see.” The woman- Officer Brianne, it seems- examines Lapis. There’s a startling brightness in her blue eyes. A precision the former pilot dislikes. Something like sunlight dancing along the point of an icicle. Lapis feels something like self-consciousness under that stare. She’s aware that there are others like her, and that unlike her, many of them returned to the field after receiving Ma’am’s blessing. Other slaves of the Empire, set free and turned against their former masters. This is fine. What memories remain of Lapis’s time as a pilot are shrapnel embedded in her skull, and she’s only too happy to let Ma’am extract them. Instead of sending her back into the fight, Ma’am kept her. Ma’am chose her. 

“I’ve seen some reports on your program. It’s…” Brianne’s smile becomes tense. “Creative.”

“The Empire never treated her very well.” Ma’am takes a sip of Her rosé. “Plenty of flaws in their own conditioning to exploit.”

The officer’s eyes flick to Her. “And you have treated her well.”

“Yes,” the officer says, unmoved. “She’s over the moon.”

“It’s a documented phenomenon,” Ma’am interjects. “The bio-ports the Empire installs in their pilots cause lasting changes to the subject’s nervous system. They’re meant to integrate them into the mech’s own sensory systems, but as a side effect, their own hearing and vision are left with increased sensitivity.”

“So you brought her to a ball.”

Ma’am’s eyes sharpen. “I’d trusted no one would come up and start interrogating her.”

“As I said, Minerva, I’ve read the reports.” The officer puts a stiletto point on that last word.

Ma’am plucks a grape from its stem. “And?”

“Don’t mistake me, it’s very technically impressive.” Brianne’s attention snaps back to Ma’am. “I just thought we were supposed to be better than the Empire.”

“And we are.” Ma’am sets a fingertip on Lapis’s chin, and the former pilot opens her mouth for the grape. “You know what they fed her? Nutrient paste. They stuck a tube down her throat a few times a day and left it at that. The Empire broke these pilots first. I put them back together.”

“And then you send them back onto the field.” The officer taps her talons again. “Or, you keep them as your brainfucked little pets to roll out for parties.”

Ma’am cocks a fine brow. “Should I have left her in a ward somewhere?” She sets Her glass down. “Ideals are a wonderful thing to have, Brianne, but they rarely survive contact with reality. We’re fighting a dirty war, against an immoral enemy. High Command decided we couldn’t be too precious, either.”

“Oh.” The officer nods slowly. “So you can keep a woman as a pet as long as you feed her fruit instead of sludge.”

“As long as you win,” Ma’am corrects her.

Brianne lingers with this, sipping her red wine. “And you won.”

Again that thin smile. A bladepoint which finds its way through any armor one might wear against Her. “We are winning, Brianne.”

The officer gives an acknowledging grunt, before slipping Lapis one last disapproving look. The former pilot straightens. Presents herself for appraisal. Only Ma’am’s matters, of course, but Lapis is an accessory to Truth now. Truth must be seen, heard, felt in all its dimensions. 

“Well,” Brianne finally says, flashing Ma’am a hollow smile. “Enjoy your victory then, Minerva.” Then, at last, she strides back to the heart of the ball.

Ma’am doesn’t keep Lapis there much longer. The band begins to play soon, shattering the air with strings and brass. Lapis flinches at each note. Her mistress, ever merciful, ever loving, leads her outside into the backseat of another limo. “These balls get so droll once the band starts,” says Ma’am as the driver pulls away. “But, tradition is tradition…”

“Tradition is tradition,” Lapis mutters as well. She hasn’t the faintest what this means, beyond that Ma’am has said it and that it therefore carries weight.

They’re carried away from the cacophony and blurring lights of the city, out into the swallowing dark of the surrounding forest, and finally to Ma’am’s property. Lapis has seen little of the place- only what Ma’am has deemed necessary or pleasant for her to see. The former pilot is content with the smaller building set aside for her, where Ma’am leads her now. Here, in a comfortable but lightly featured room, there’s no words. Ma’am deems none necessary. There’s only Lapis’s nightly anointment- Ma’am helping her to peel off her latex. Lapis trembles and whines at the material’s parting kisses. She’s soothed by fingertips brushing through her hair. A bath is run and a warm, damp cloth cleans the sweat from her body. Lapis almost comes, trembling and whimpering. Ma’am does nothing to quiet her. These meek little noises, they both understand, are hymns of gratitude.

Finally, Lapis dries with a soft towel, and then her vacbed awaits her. She crawls into the latex envelope, and it clings and crinkles to her like an old friend’s greeting. Exhaling, she melts into its embrace. Lets it settle over her and seal to her as a second protective skin. Ma’am ensures the breathing tube is fed through a hole over Lapis’s face into her mouth. Then, darkness as the rest of the sheet is slipped over her head.

“You have always fought for Southreach.” Ma’am’s voice, penetrating the black slick of the latex.

“I have always fought for Southreach,” Lapis mumbles around the breathing tube.

“You will always fight for Southreach.”

“I will always fight for Southreach.”

A slight shifting of the latex as Ma’am leans down and places a kiss on the material over Lapis’s forehead. Then She seals the envelope, and the vacuum whirs to life. Lapis is cocooned, as she is each night, in all-consuming love and mercy.