Meraniel Gallo had only been to the Imperial Core only once in her life - before now. 

 

Her father - the Governor of Parth, a distant world on the edge of what was considered the ‘old frontier’ - had been granted recognition by the Empress herself for his effort in crushing The Ghost of Leukon , and invited to the Core Worlds for a gala in his honor. Meraniel and her mother had come along - and while she wasn’t permitted to do much beyond the confines of their lodging, she still dreamed about the approach to the Imperial Palace. It was a long, singular stretch of land - flanked by reliquaries and barracks, temples and convents - but at either side, gilded statues of the Saints of Old stood, to be honored indefinitely. 

 

Chief among them, of course, was the icon of Meraniel’s chosen Saint; Sartha Thrace, dressed in Imperial black, kneeling in submission. It was her enduring virtue - in a moment of weakness, she had betrayed the Imperium, fled without attention to the damage she’d done by doing so. She’d returned, of course - she always did - and pledged herself to the Imperial cause forevermore, serving until her demise, her self-sacrifice and her martyrdom enduring. 

 

When she’d stood before the statue last - gleaming gold, freshly polished - Meraniel had been granted a divine vision, one that had enshrined the Imperial Church in her heart, first and foremost, above anything and everything else. Now, as she stood before it, things had changed. Time had worn the statue down; the gold that covered it had worn away at points, revealing the brass beneath, and a general coating of dust had fallen over it - a sign that the effort initially given to clean such a thing had faded over time. Furthermore, on closer inspection, the statue had been vandalized between its thighs - the words ‘FREE TO A GOOD HOME’ had been painted just above her waistline, a sacrilege so vile that Meraniel could barely believe it hadn’t yet been addressed.

 

She huffed, and considered reprimanding the nearby guardsman that had been eyeballing her for the entirety of her observance for simply standing there - it was no wonder that such graffiti had been allowed to happen, if this was the quality of security around the statues - but an apparition like a golden hand pulled her away, guided her back toward the path to the Palace. 

 

She did have an appointment, after all. 

 

Not long after the fall of Aleppo, she’d been granted a formal Imperial summons - her Chaplain had sent the collected battle reports of the pilots that called Aurea home to the Imperium On High, and in return had received a summons for Meraniel specifically - citing impressive metrics and battlefield performance, as well as devotion to the cause - requesting her swift return to the Core for certification testing to join the Imperium’s Ordo Pax. The opportunity to return to the heart of the Empire and serve the Empress directly in quashing the myriad uprisings that cropped up closer to the Crown was one that Meraniel could not so easily turn down - and so, she’d set out with immediacy. 

 

She’d been warned, however, that things were different in the Core. That the world she’d seen nearly two decades prior had changed greatly if rumors were to be believed, what with the ascension of a new Empress the year prior, and that the religion they held so dear in Aurea was of less focus closer to the Crown. Meraniel didn’t dare raise opposition against the Chaplain, but she refused to believe it - how could those who’d felt the light of the Saints stray from it - especially those who’d pledged themselves to her Lady? Surely, the Chaplain was mistaken - such a thing could be forgiven, what with how busy they remained. 

 

Now, she wasn’t so sure. 

 

The Palace drew closer, and with it, Meraniel’s anxiety rose in her chest. She’d been off Stardust for the transit to the Core - the less her potential superiors knew about her consumption of the drug, the better - and her bones craved it, the warm reassurance of the Spirit and the buzz of energy that came with it. The three pills she’d carried with her from Aurea sat sealed in their vial, tucked within her jacket - but she needed them for the trial ahead, when she’d settle in Gethsemane’s cabin and dose herself without fear of being judged. 

 

Still, that future certainty did little to quell the withdrawal she was feeling now. 

 

Soon, her boots clicked up the palace stairs; she crossed herself and dipped fingers into a little basin of sanctified water by the door, finding herself perturbed at how dry it was. She drew an Imperial Cross on her forehead with a thumb that was barely-sodden, and progressed onward. A brandishing of the seal from her missive had her directed down another long hallway, decorated not with imagery of the Saints but of profound military leadership of the past - something that dried Meraniel’s mouth out entirely - and soon, she sat before her; Commander Amara Burke, overseer of the Ordo Pax. 

 

Burke’s office was well-decorated; awards and medals pinned on clothplates hidden behind glass cabinet doors; a shard of hull-plating from the first Doru she’d ever piloted, long since decommissioned; a letter from the Empress informing her of her promotion to the head of the Ordo Pax. It was personalized, cold and militaristic - and entirely devoid any emblem or symbol of the Imperial Church, save for a small cross that topped the cover of an inkwell upon her desk. 

 

Beyond their initial greeting, neither Meraniel nor Burke said a thing to one another - Burke, to her part, was trawling the record she’d received on Meraniel, while the pilot herself did as she’d been trained; remaining silent until she was spoken to. Ninety-three consecutive seconds of silence were broken as Burke finally set the records down, and glanced up. “You’ve an impressive record.” 

 

“What of our welcoming prayer?” Meraniel asked, ignoring the Commander’s question. Burke raised a brow. 

 

“Welcoming prayer?” 

 

“Typically before a meeting with a Superior, we pray to center.” Meraniel pushed, eyes somewhat wide. Burke snorted. 

 

“You don’t need to keep up with that overt tradition here, Pilot Gallo. I know that the frontier is a different place, but our adherence is presumed, not practiced.” 

 

“What does that mean?” Meraniel felt the anxiety in her chest becoming stronger, more realized; had the Chaplain been right? “Are there no Rites of Service on this world?” 

 

“There are, Pilot Gallo, but…” She waved her hand around, somewhat dismissive. “Certainly you’re aware of the Ascension of Empress Luthea III, correct?” 

 

“Of course. I’m no fool.” Meraniel bit back. She saw it, then, slightly; irritation pulled at the corner of Commander Burke’s mouth. 

 

“Then you must be aware of a push for stronger focus on the militarization of our Imperium, correct? That tradition is important, but can be practiced within the home, or with smaller symbols. How much time would be lost in important strategic proceedings due to every pilot needing to pray a Creed? How many credits were wasted on building a scale-model of the Thracian Pieta in each new frontier base?” Burke scrawled a few notes on the bottom of Meraniel’s record, but she was too angry to consider what they could’ve been, every free brain cell expended to make sure she didn’t fly off the handle and tank her chances with the Ordo before she’d even gone through the trial. “I understand it’s likely startling, but…things are different, here. Surely you were warned of that, weren’t you?” 

 

“I was.” Meraniel kept her tone as level as she could’ve. “I apologize for my questioning, it is…still shocking to me.” 

 

“I understand, Pilot Gallo. I apologize for the shock.” Burke gave her a smile that sat somewhere between ‘warm’ and ‘chiding’. “If you’re half as proficient as your records suggest, though, I think you’ll be a good fit for this unit - and I’m sure the girls will be able to work some of these hesitancies out of you in time.” She stood, and Meraniel did the same. “Walk with me.” 

 

“Of course.” Meraniel kept her strides short as she followed after Burke, trying to match her pace rather than falling into her usual marching gait. 

 

“What do you know about the Ordo Pax? ” Burke didn’t bother to look back as Meraniel as they walked. 

 

“They are the Empress’ Hand, that which ensures the safety, peace, and prosperity of the core system. They were established after the fall of Parth, if I’m not mistaken.” 

 

“Correct. You’re familiar with Parth, aren’t you?” 

 

“Yes, ma’am. My father was the fifth Governor of the planet, until his passing.” 

 

“Have you ever had an interest in system politics?” 

 

“No, ma’am. I’ve been a Thracian adherent since my first visit to the Core for his recognition ceremony; I signed up for temple service after a vision before Her statue on the Palace Approach.” 

 

“Ah, yes. Unsightly thing, nowadays.” Burke huffed. Meraniel’s blood pressure rose, and her head filled with fog - before, again, those golden hands rubbed her temples, told her to relax, so she did. “It’s a magnet for graffiti from both sides of the spectrum. In my opinion, it should be deconstructed and moved to a reliquary where it can be observed by adherents like you, and…made less compulsory viewing for others.” She fished through her jacket pocket, retrieving something, before she stuck it between her lips - exhaling a cloud of vapor afterward. “Do you smoke, Meraniel?” 

 

“No, ma’am. I don’t indulge in substances beyond sacramental wine.” She lied. Burke snorted.

 

“No disrespect to you, Pilot Gallo, but I find that hard to believe. The last time I visited a base like Aurea, half of the pilots I saw were blind in a methamphetamine haze. The frontier is a different place, I don’t blame you for doing it - so long as it’s not that shit cut with Starlight.” Burke turned on her heel, and Meraniel stopped herself short. “You’re not a Deliriant, are you?” 

 

Deliriant. It ran off her tongue with such malice that Meraniel could barely muster a response. She felt as though she’d been cut in half. “Of course not, ma’am. Wouldn’t dream of ruining my own efficacy with that… waste. ” The feeling of the vial in her jacket pocket became far more prominent in this moment, and she felt Burke’s eyes poring over her, trying to sniff out her deceit. She steeled herself. 

 

After a moment, the Commander seemed satisfied, turning on her heel once again and walking on. Meraniel kept pace. She continued. “Excellent combat records or not, I don’t have space for junkies in my Order. Combat stimulants are fine, so long as they’re regulated - most of my pilots have routine dialysis sessions to wash that bullshit out of their kidneys before it can get settled in.” She took another puff on her vaporizer, letting its produce wash over Meraniel. It smelled like incense. “But if I found out you were like some of those other frontier critters, well - this’d be a poor effort. No addict can match up to my best.” 

 

“I’ve seen pilots perform admirably under various states of intoxication, ma’am.” Meraniel posited. Again, a surge of something rattled Burke’s shoulders - but the pilot continued. “I believe that such substances bring us closer to the Saints - and thus, we are guided properly through them.” 

 

Burke snorted. “Right. The shit that used to make rebel pilots into drooling dogs is going to enhance the combat proficiency of perfectly capable pilots.” She turned, again, and Meraniel stopped dead, again. “Do me a favor, Pilot Gallo?” 

 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

 

“Never talk about that Sainted guidance again, so long as you’re here? I’ve no issue with you practicing Thracian edicts more than the rest of my pilots, but this is a place for war and efficiency - not for waiting for your golden lady to come and guide you properly.” She jammed an index finger into Meraniel’s chest, and the pilot swallowed the urge to bite it off. “Am I understood?” 

 

“Yes, ma’am.” Meraniel lied, and Burke smiled. 

 

“Excellent. Let’s get you settled with the unit and your lodgings, then - we can go for the trial tomorrow, once your machine’s done being inspected.” 

 

“Of course, ma’am.” Meraniel endured the growing frustration in her heart as Burke turned again, leaving her in silence for the rest of her march - to conference with her thoughts, and their conflation with the seeming truth of the Imperial Core. Before long, Burke had lead her to the barracks, given her a private-enough space, and left her to settle in for the night - the moment she’d left, Meraniel sealed the door and removed the shard of Ancyor from around her neck. She placed it in the dead center of the desk in the room, and bowed her head. 

 

“Saint Thrace,” She whispered. “Once again, I pray for your intercession, and I fear this time may be worse than the last.” 

 

She felt it, then; the hands of her Saint leaving her temples, where they’d rubbed and soothed her - traveling down her body. She spoke no words; her Saint did not need to hear her voice to know her needs, for she was Chosen, she was Blessed. Those gilded fingers found themselves just above her own waistband, almost exactly where the graffiti had been on the statue of Sartha outside - but they could not pass. A voice rang out within her skull, overarching and domineering - 

 

 

Regardless of how she’d felt in the moment, her brain raged with lust, flushing her mind with aphrodisia and wiping out her worries and stresses entirely. She moved to tilt back in her desk chair, a boot holding her in place while she fumbled with the fasteners of her slacks and the top buttons of her shirt. Once balanced, she moved - one hand moved below her waistband, while the other grabbed the shard of Ancyor and held it against the flesh of her sternum, between her breasts. 

 

Her mind drifted as hers fingers found their proper place, and she whimpered. “I fear what I h-have signed up f-for…”

 

A voice called in response from somewhere beyond.

 

 

“I d-did, m-my - oh! - m-my Lady, but-”

 

 

“They are my b-betters!- ” Meraniel called, confused, but the voice responded.

 

 

“T-to s-sprreaad-”

 

 

“Y-yes, Lady Thrace.” 

 

 

“Y-yes, my Lady!” 

 

 

 

The door slammed open, suddenly, and Meraniel kicked off of her precarious balance on the desk, falling back and smacking the back of her skull on the floor below. Air flooded her lungs once again, a desperate exhale as she ripped slick fingers from her slacks, eyes shooting to the door - where a pilot stood, a look of unveiled disgust wrought upon her lips. 

 

“ Good Lord. Commander Burke told me you were odd, but I didn’t realize you’d be one of those freaks.” The pilot’s disgust gradually shifted into a sneer. “Now we’re bringing in the bombed-out zealots from the frontier to fill the ranks?” 

 

“S’pose so.” Another voice spoke from just outside the door. “Her records aren’t anything to scoff at, though, Jules. Don’t want to get too cocky.” 

 

“Why’d I get cocky?” Jules, the woman who’d - presumably - slammed the door open, stood over Meraniel now, crouching to meet her. “Cocky ain’t in my dictionary, y’need to not be as good as you think to be cocky. ” She looked down at Meraniel.

“What’s your name, freak?” 

 

Meraniel bit back the urge to tell the woman before her to fuck off, in the interest of maintaining decorum. “Meraniel Gallo, ma’am.” 

 

“ Ma’am. ” Jules snorted. “So fuckin’ formal like I didn’t just catch you knuckle-deep inside yourself screamin’ the name of some ghost. Put your pants back on an’ stand the fuck up, let me take a look at you.” 

 

Meraniel willed the blush away from her cheeks, pulling herself back to her feet and - pitifully - zipping her slacks back up. The shard of Ancyor sat, plainly visible in the middle of her chest where her shirt had been allowed to fall to either side. She brushed her unsullied hand across her bangs, pushing them out of her line of sight. Jules huffed another breath, the sneer on her lips worsening. 

 

“You an’ your ilk are fuckin’ ridiculous. Separatists, at this point, basically - can hardly believe we breathe the same air. Thought Luthea was gonna chase all the fuckin’ fundamentalists outta the corps, but here we are - an’ now we’ve gotta entertain you here, what with your cheap tourist-shop necklace an’ your delusions of Sainthood.” She took a step toward Meraniel. “Let’s get somethin’ straight, freak. Assumin’ you make it through your trial tomorrow - not a fuckin’ guarantee, by the way - I don’t care how you worship or what you do in the privacy of your own quarters, so long as I can’t hear it.” She snarled as she moved closer, nose-to-forehead with Meraniel - significantly shorter than the other. “But I swear to whatever God exists on-fuckin’-high, if those lips of yours utter that name loud enough for me t’hear without tryin’, I will come in here and sew that slit of yours shut. I don’t need some fundie freak keeping me awake while I’m tryin’ to get some shuteye. Understood?” 

 

Meraniel tried - and failed - to lock her jaw in place, instead grinding her molars into dust as rage and frustration wrapped themselves around her stomach like overgrown parasites. She clenched her fist, something that Jules noticed, judging by the way the other woman’s posture readied like she was going to take a swing - but instead, she let her breath slip between her lips. 

 

“Understood.” Meraniel replied, quiet. “Sorry for waking you, ma’am.” 

 

“You’re not forgiven, nor are you excused. ” Jules moved before Meraniel expected it, a swift punch to the gut that doubled her over - before a boot to her head knocked her to the ground. Meraniel gasped for air, and the intruder took a few steps back, reaching the door, slamming it shut without another word. Meraniel waited until she heard the heavy footfalls stride away - and then, she was left alone. 

 

She tried not to cry too loudly as the night fell over her in waves.

 

-

 

Morning came with a ration-pack breakfast and a notice to report to the hangar on palace grounds-and so, without hesitation nor complaint, she dragged herself into her plugsuit (ignoring the growing bruise on her midsection), threw her jacket and vial of Stardust overtop, and made her way out. By the time she’d arrived, Commander Burke was midway through looking over Gethesemane’s documentation, while the other pilot from the night prior - Jules, she recalled - stood whispering into her ear. The two straightened up at Meraniel’s arrival, while Meraniel cracked a salute. 

 

“Commander, ma’am.” She looked to Jules. “I don’t believe I got your rank, ma’am.” 

 

“Not for you t’worry about, friend. ” The term was slung with such derision that Meraniel immediately got the meaning, and fixed her jaw properly as Jules took a few steps back. “S’a big old machine, here. Heavy. We don’t got much like this in the Order - where’d you get it?” 

 

“My father had it made when I graduated from the academy. He didn’t think that I should cut my teeth in a Doru - so I didn’t.” She grabbed a handle on one of Gethsemane’s front limbs, pulling it and deploying an access ladder to its side-hatch. “So far, it’s claimed six rebel machines in service to Aurea - undoubtedly, that number would increase in serve to the Ordo Pax.” 

 

“Right.” Jules’ tongue fumbled around within her mouth, bouncing from side to side as if in thought, or fumbling around a ball of chew. She said little else, and so Meraniel turned to Commander Burke. 

 

“The trial, ma’am?” 

 

“Simple as can be - surely it won’t be much work for y’, if your records are anything t’go by. Live fire shouldn’t be trouble, should it?” Meraniel shook her head in response, so Burke nodded.  “Information’ll be available in your cabin.” She took a few steps back as she and Jules continued - presumably - the conversation they were having on her arrival, and Meraniel made her way into Gethsemane’s cabin; she worked her way through her rudimentary start-up sequence, listening as its nuclear heart began to fire up, as screens flickered to life. As promised, information from Burke’s tablet flooded her viewscreen - two hard targets, piloted by rudimentary artificial intelligence meant to mimic rebel operators of old. Meraniel was expected to down-or-eliminate at least one, while avoiding a down-or-elimination from the other within the ten minutes allotted for the trial. 

 

Easy work. 

 

She slipped her uplink into the back of her skull, and immediately, Gethsemane’s body became her own; her hands settled against control levers, and waited. 

 

Time passed. There was no prayer of battle spared for her, no scent of incense, no banner of Saint Thrace hanging from the rafters. The hangar was quiet and sterile - save for one additional machine, bipedal and armed with a gyrojet-rifle fed by a drum magazine, dressed in Imperial Black and adorned with gold . Her eyes drifted to Jules and Burke speaking - before the former strolled toward the mech. 

 

Of course the cunt's machine would be some icon to avarice.

 

She signaled ‘ready’ - and moments later, a confirmation from Burke hit her screen, the hangar doors opened to the training ground - and she moved into dead air. 

 

This was different; less frenetic, less hectic, the lack of gunfire raining down upon her meant that her senses were far more clear than usual. There was no need to pop her Stardust - she needed to keep herself sober, anyway, so as to not trip any alarms with Commander Burke nor her watchdog - so she pushed onward. The field itself took the form of a desolate cityscape; ruined buildings and shattered towers, streets flooded with debris, all simulated and reconstructed in hardlight from some planet she’d never see nor care about. Urban warfare was different, but combat was combat - it all shook out the same, in the end. 

 

Then, the screen lit up - five separate target locks from two sources. Gethsemane’s countermeasures struggled to source both targets - so she shifted expectations of opposition to ‘one’ . Within moments, she’d isolated the signature of one of the machines, taking cover behind a fallen structure. She dropped Gethsemane’s power and forced a shunt of energy into the mass-driver on its back, ignoring estimations and angles and pulling the trigger. 

 

She fired - and the overclocked bullet shattered the air around it, a single slug that ripped through hard-light concrete into a target beyond, reducing it to naught but shrapnel and reactor burnoff. Gethsemane redlined, the reactor shorting - and in that blackout period, the missiles initially honing in on her detonated around her machine, a clear warning shot sending shrapnel plinking off of her rig. She growled, forcing it back into combat posture as the screen flickered back to life, showing what she’d anticipated - one down, one to go, with nine-and-a-half minutes remaining. She braced for another target lock - but instead, the sound of thrusters ripped through her ears.

 

Then, she saw it - her opposition, painted white and gold, punching skyward. Her Mass-Driver wouldn’t be quick enough to shoot it out of the air, so she’d simply have to bait it accordingly. She broke cover, and a nest of target locks filled her screen once again - so she darted into the ruins, narrowly avoiding another salvo of missiles that pinged off of hard-light constructs around her. Judging by the rapidly-shifting directional lock she had on the machine tailing her, it was adjusting to chase after her. 

Just as she’d planned. 

 

Things happened quickly; a volley of shotshell pinged off of her plating, and she ducked. Her pursuer overshot - moved beyond her, twisted to try and get another shot - ending dead in the middle of her line of fire. A smile crossed her lips and her finger wrapped around the trigger - 

 

- and as it depressed, a tungsten rod punched through the machine’s center-of-mass, sending it hurtling to Earth; wings clipped, target down. 

 

She had seven-and-a-half minutes left on the timer when the trial was called; too quick, too easy, too simple. Meraniel Gallo was certainly not the best pilot in the history of the Imperium - that honor belonged to Sartha, or someone like her - but she was damned good, certainly good enough for the Ordo Pax, surely good enough for Burke and Jules and all the others like them. 

 

She turned Gethsemane toward the hangar, eyes catching a glimmer of black-and-gold in the open door, and something was off. Gold-tinted thoughts told her what she already knew; even if the Trial was over, they weren’t intent on letting her walk out with that record. 

 

At least, Jules wasn’t. 

 

A message scrawled across her viewfinder - 

 

 

Then, the black-and-gold mech moved, rifle brought to bear - and Meraniel’s HUD lit up with warnings as a salvo of gyrojets shattered against Gethsemane’s windscreen. She let out a howl of anger as she pushed for cover, bullets shot a bit too wide from Jules’ machine rippling as they met hard-light and detonated. She pushed Gethsemane’s targeting computer to trawl imperial records for anything it could find on the machine before her - additional armaments, weakpoints, weaponry - but came back with just a name, Dread Anchor. 

 

She scoffed at the panache of it, and made note to tell Jules that it was a stupid fucking name, were she to survive this and not end up an inconsequential sacrifice of some over-ambitious pilot who, presumably, now feared for her place in the Ordo Pax . She’d also make sure to deliver that message with a punch to the temple, giving Jules a bruise to match the one that sat uncomfortably in the middle of her abdomen. 

 

That could wait, though; she needed to endure this hazing, first. She pushed from cover-to-cover as the machine hunting her tried to anticipate her moves, blindfiring corners and baiting Meraniel from cover. Each time a gyrojet found itself lodged in Gethsemane’s plating, rage overtook Meraniel; how dare they trick her like this, how dare they thrust her into an unwinnable position? Didn’t they know who she was? 

 

She was Sartha Thrace’s chosen, for fuck’s sake! 

 

Rage and impulse overtook her; she pushed a corner, an obvious feint on the part of her opposition - save for the fact that they were closer than she anticipated. She tried to recalibrate, turn her hull toward the machine, but it was too late - a burst of gyrojet rounds clipped Gethsemane, cleaving its limb at the shoulder. She roared, and flung its still-intact limb into Jules’ cabin, bowling her over before rolling through, pushing into an evasive dance as she tried to collect herself once again. 

 

Dread Anchor would need a moment to get back to its feet, assuredly; that gave Meraniel a moment to gather her thoughts, to think, to try and calibrate a response. Gethsemane was down an arm, and with Dread Anchor keeping quarters as close as it could, her main gun was borderline useless. That left it with one arm and a set of claws - which, against a pilot as undoubtedly as accomplished as Jules in a machine that favored this environment, was tantamount to having nothing. 

 

She breathed, and pressed her head into her palm. She was fucked; her best bet was to surrender, give up the challenge, and pray that Jules didn’t loose a burst into her cabin accidentally, or beat her to death prior to her return shuttle departing. 

Fury threatened to boil her brain once again as the reality of failure settled in her stomach like stone. She reached for her communication array to call it off, stretching from her seat - before the vial in her jacket dug into her side, against her ribs. Logic and decorum gave way to instinct; she popped the lid of the vial, popped a tablet of Stardust into her mouth, and crushed it with her tongue. A familiar veil blanketed her senses, and she felt herself sinking once again. 

 

She didn’t bother to consider the quickness with which she fell back to the stimulants she’d been attempting to avoid - she’d needed to. She didn’t have a choice, right? She couldn’t have done this alone-

 

Her thoughts stopped. Reality shifted. 

 

Meraniel Gallo was no longer alone within Gethsemane;  a gilded presence leaned over her shoulder, pressed lips to her cheek.

 

“Let me help you.” Saint Thrace whispered in her ear, and Meraniel acquiesced to her Lady; golden hands covered her own, and she saw the path forward drawn in Starlight - the cover that she’d hidden behind was not so unstable as to not be scaled, was not so incorporeal as to not be utilized. Warriors like Dread Anchor saw the world as a flat plane, but it was more than that - for Meraniel Gallo, it had always been more than that. 

 

That was what made her so goddamned good - that, and her boundless faith, twice-rewarded. 

 

Gethsemane creaked in response as Dread Anchor blind-fired a corner, anticipatory of her positioning, wrong once again - opening itself up as Meraniel - no, as Saint Thrace propelled the machine forward, up a fractured tower’s midsection, over the bound - and, with a singular claw forward, Gethsemane’s weight smashed into Dread Anchor, countless tons of shipsteel and tungsten slamming into the vessel like a battering ram, taking it to the ground. Gethsemane’s servos fired in resistance at the action, but Meraniel forced it forward through divine will; the machine moving in ways it never had before - an extension of Meraniel rather than her weapon - and she brought her claw down on Dread Anchor’s primary limb, cutting through its shoulder-joint and cleaving it clean off. 

 

Bearing down on Dread Anchor, she saw Jules for how helpless she was; despite the gilded trappings of her machine, she’d armed herself with one weapon - no contingencies, no backups, no plan. She wasn’t a good pilot, she was dogshit and barely adaptable. She didn’t deserve to be in the Ordo Pax. 

 

“Really,” Sartha whispered in Meraniel’s ear. “She doesn’t deserve to be part of all of this - of the Imperium, of our world.” Her Lady’s voice drew closer. 

 

“She doesn’t deserve to live.” 

 

Meraniel felt herself powerless to resist her Saint’s compulsion; she brought her clawed-limb up, raising it as high as it would go despite Gethsemane’s addled state - 

 

- and down into Dread Anchor’s unprotected cabin, the Stardust in her system amplifying the sound of impacted metal and crunching bone into - 

 

-

 

She awoke in a concrete cell, aching at every inch. It hurt to blink, to breathe, to move - but she tried, regardless, to push herself up on an elbow - before crumpling to the ground once again. 

 

She tried to scan her surroundings from a curled-up position; she’d been ripped from her plugsuit, dressed in rags, a pair of shorts that rode up to mid-thigh and a shirt that barely covered her midsection. Countless bruises joined the dark spot on her abdomen - a patchwork of purples and yellows and greens and blues across the whole of her flesh - presumably, her face was the same. 

 

She inhaled, exhaled - a wheezing sound that brought a taste of iron to her mouth - and she became aware, at that, that she wasn’t alone in this room. Adrenaline and instinct took over, and she forced herself up onto bruised knees, facing the other presence in the space.

 

They sat with legs-wrapped around a backwards facing chair; dressed entirely in black, with fair skin and a shock of red hair poking from beneath the cap they wore. Their expression remained placid - but despite that, Meraniel found that she couldn’t pull her stare away from them, her admittedly-limited focus drawing her eyes back to them, again and again. 

 

Then, they spoke; their words cut through Meraniel’s admittedly-disjointed train of thought, pulling her to attention. 

 

“They wanted to have you killed, you know.” 

 

Meraniel didn’t respond - rather, she blinked. The woman continued. “I told them it would be a waste. The Daughter of Parth didn’t need to become another casualty of the Imperium’s self-destructive fits. They put you in that position, didn’t they?” 

A moment passed, and then two; Meraniel realized that now, she was waiting for a response. She mustered up the breath in her lungs to give one. “They did, but-”

 

“You’d dosed yourself with that frontier slop - Stardust, right?” Meraniel nodded. She clicked her tongue. “Foolish, you know. It leaves you open and susceptible. They’ve outlawed it here - something about the impurities causing psychosis in pilots, so we settle for the real stuff even if it’s overkill - but you came prepared.” She rotated the little vial between her fingers. “Two pills left. I can see you showed some restraint - most pilots I’ve met with a taste of it will down the whole vial and come to hours later, soaked in sweat and blood and…whatever else they’ve produced in their fervor.”

 

Meraniel’s eyes followed the vial of Stardust, and the woman noticed, smiling. She stood up from her chair, holding it before Meraniel, drawing her vision in as if in a trance - before cupping her jaw, holding her in place, staring into her eyes. “Still, I can see that you’re far gone already. Probably wiped out all of your high-functioning neurons in a wave of addled bliss back in Aurea. Needless to say, I don’t think we’ll be reforming you for the Ordo Pax, but…that order is overrated, anyway. I can think of a better place for something like you. ” 

 

“You can?” Meraniel’s voice was a hollow gasp, pitifully hopeful. The woman smiled - genuine and real, but tinged with something else.

 

“Of course. You have so much strength and fervor, you just…need to hone it. You need someone to sharpen you to a fine point.” With one hand fixed on Meraniel’s jaw, the other slipped the vial out of sight, retrieving something else - bringing it into Meraniel’s field of view. A crawling fear crept up from somewhere deep inside of her as her eyes set upon the black leather collar dangling from the woman’s hand. A maelstrom of thoughts swirled in Meraniel’s head; urban legends shared by soldiers restocking at Aurea, unmarked mechs dripping with fresh black paint, images of muzzled soldiers with bruised knees.

 

She knew exactly what this was, who she was, and her mouth moved to form the words - before the woman shook her head with that same cloying smile.

 

“Let’s not say it.” She whispered. “Makes it much harder to accept. ”

“Oh.” Meraniel mumbled, head hung low, neck exposed. Her Handler wasted little time undoing the shard of Ancyor around her neck, replacing it with the collar that she’d retrieved moments earlier, locking it within a moment of getting it into place. 

Despite her best efforts, Meraniel couldn’t fight the feeling of familiarity washing over her - the idea that the collar belonged around her neck becoming truth before her. 

 

She’d not seen the leash when it was clipped around her throat, pulling her on as her Handler opened the door to her cell, leading her on all fours into a larger hallway. 

 

“I know this is probably horrid, not what we were expecting - but the Hounds aren’t as bad as you’d think, not anymore.” Handler prattled on, but Meraniel’s thoughts were folding in on themselves, imploding and falling apart as anxiety and fear and rage boiled together into one noxious mixture within her skull, blotting out everything else. “We don’t keep them in Kennels, at least, not anymore - you and your Sisters will get along just fine, and you’ll have plenty of space.”

 

“Sisters?” Meraniel’s voice was a whisper. “I’m n-not?-”

 

“Hush , my dear Mera.” She laughed, before pulling the leash a bit more aggressively - and Meraniel moved with it, following with ease. “Gods, you’re already so pliable - you’ll be perfect soon enough.” 

 

Her spirit tried to conceptualize resistance, tried to fight back - but her brain was already enamored. In the back of her mind, she could assume that she’d been dosed again - but she had no evidence to back that up, nothing to prove it. Was she already broken?

 

Despite her denial, she knew it was entirely possible. 

 

The concrete hall stretched on seemingly infinitely, wearing Meraniel out - until they reached a sudden stopping point. Ahead of them, a metallic door stood - from behind it, the sound of discordant barking, yelling, squabbling - until Handler clicked her boot against it. 

 

The room fell silent, and then the door opened. Beyond it, four other bodies occupied the space, women in various states of dress-and-undress, tattoos and augmentations visible on lean flesh and musculature. Meraniel tried to rationalize an explanation, but was disallowed; Handler pulled her focus before the moment passed. 

 

“Welcome home, little Mera.” Handler whispered, and she drew close, cupping her chin once again as she undid her leash. She pressed the two last tablets of Stardust into Meraniel’s mouth, kissed her forehead - and pushed her into the gathered mass. She was dragged to the floor before the door had even fully closed, hands searching for purchase and claim as a cacophony of voices and noise rang out above her. 

 

“-aww, she's already bruised-”

 

“-don’t be too mean, she’s just a puppy-”

 

Her rags didn’t last long, torn asunder by grabbing hands; which went first, she wasn't sure, but she was left bare within moments. 

 

“-she’s fresh, I think-”

 

“-With a face like that? No way-” 

 

“-what’s in her mouth?-”

 

Fingers slipped between her lips and pried her jaw open, and a sound of amusement echoed through the group. Before she could react, lips touched her own, and a tongue forced its way into her mouth, crushing the tablets of Stardust against her teeth. Grit cascaded over her tongue and teeth, and reality frayed; her ego falling to tatters as her last bits of consciousness tried to grab onto anything they could, trying to avoid utter annihilation. 

 

Then, it happened; time slowed, and she was no longer alone. The feeling of hands on her flesh became distant; her Lady knelt before her, eyes meeting her own. 

 

“My Saint, please,” Meraniel gasped, begging, “Once again, I pray for your-” 

 

She was silenced by a finger placed to her lips, eyes wide and full of tears. 

 

“Hush, now, Meraniel. This is no time for intercession.” She whispered, and Meraniel began to cry. “You are my Chosen - and as such, you will endure My suffering, My tribulation. This will hurt, assuredly - but you will emerge better for it.” 

 

“My lady,” Meraniel whined, “I am unsure if I can, if I am able-”

 

“Little warrior, you are not so pathetic .” She cupped Meraniel’s face in both of her hands. “Suffering gives way to great change - and yours is a gateway to a return to order, to our Edict.” 

 

Tears streamed openly down Meraniel’s cheeks, and, weakly, she whispered, “Do you promise?” 

 

“Of course, my darling.” Her Saint was going, now; an ephemeral golden mist fading into the air. “I promise.” 

 

And with her farewell, Meraniel fell unto an obelisk of hands, of flesh, of writhing bodies; dragged into a void of pain and pleasure unending.