If there was a Hell, Lettie Muir was sure it would look like the Volkov Pass.

 

She wasn’t really sure why she had such disdain for it - the stretch of land she’d called home for the last three months hadn’t done anything to hurt her directly, really, so hating it was about as effective as cursing the snowflakes in a blizzard, or the raindrops in a monsoon. It was directionless rage, pointless anger, sound and fury signifying nothing.

 

Still, she hated it.

 

She woke up congested, and - having spent her last teabag the day before - dragged herself up from her bunk, tucking into her long-coat as she cut up from the entrenched barracks. She pushed through the trenchway trespass, onward to the forward base they’d established when they arrived half a year prior. She fished for the pack of cigarettes that she usually kept tucked in the inner pocket of her coat, was reminded by its absence that she had smoked the last one on this walk yesterday, and fished around the soil for thirty seconds until she found a dust-covered butt with some ash left.

 

She cherried it with her lighter, stuck it between her lips, and moved on.

 

From the forward base to their entrenched line was a thirty-minute walk at a quick pace, through tunnels and overhangs, land that had been forcefully purged of the Tsar’s flag and the grip it signified. It had become familiar; she could mark her march’s progress through the growing shadow of artillery guns on the horizon, or when she entered the tunnel that cut through the fortress they’d shattered in their initial incursion into Veriglas. It was hard to believe they’d made so much progress in their initial approach, kilometers of land claimed every week until they’d hit Volkov.

 

Then, things had slowed down.

 

What should’ve been a quick venture for the Commonwealth’s 35th Mechanized Assault Unit - ‘Lady Loren’s Hammer’ - had become a nut they couldn’t quite crack - their first attempt at a forward rush had been met with a nigh-impenetrable wall of steel - the 77th Light Cavalry Unit, an amalgam of light-and-heavy walkers that had cost them three rigs and tens of soldiers in their first engagement. Slower marches - or attempts to deploy long-guns of their own - were met with blistering barrages of artillery from beyond the pass. She found herself regularly thanking God that their entrenched position wasn’t shelled on an hourly basis - Lettie estimated they must’ve been just out of its effective range, but that didn’t help her sleep any easier.

 

The differential between their two armies was impressive to behold; walking tanks were a new investment for the Commonwealth, a fast-tracked research development to adapt to the difficult terrain presented by Veriglas. The tanks of old would get bogged down in trenches, in mud, in undergrowth, while a walker could move beyond it as if it hadn’t existed at all. For the Tsardom, however, they had only ever known walkers - generations and generations of technology could be examined, summoned, and modified for the battlefield. A Veriglas ‘Light Cavalry Unit’ was as heavy as the primary mechanized force of the Commonwealth - if they had something heavier, Lettie hadn’t seen it - nor did she want to.

 

Her walkers were already damaged enough.

 

She reached the forward base just a clip under twenty-five minutes, having walked a bit faster than intended, eyes drawn upward by the squealing of a steam-whistle as a supply train pulled into station. She continued her walk toward the quartermaster, set on getting a new pack of smokes and tin of teabags before they were preoccupied with sorting the incoming supplies - but her eyes caught sight of something massive strapped down on an empty train-car, so immense that it took up two full platforms alone. She stopped short, taking in what appeared to be another tank-frame, save for the fact that it looked like no frame she’d seen before in the whole of her time in the service.

 

It was a slender thing; she estimated it was just under fifteen meters long, and, while hunched, in its current position, just over ten high. The width, too, was interesting; she’d not seen a walker that required less than a three-person crew to operate, while this vessel seemed unable to fit more than one at most. She was certain it was man-operated, judging by the open slot in the back that was suspiciously body-shaped. Additionally, compared to the boxy, long-legged, admittedly ugly frames of the other Walkers in the service - this one was deliberately designed, almost canid in its shape and features.

 

Lettie grimaced; it looked like a pain in the ass to maintain, and she was sure she’d get slapped with it. She considered approaching it more directly to look at some of the bits that were harder to make out from the distance; ports above its’ ‘arms’ and ‘legs’ with little scorches about them, front ‘claws’ that appeared to be made of interlocking steel chains, and sporadic heat vents scattered about its body. She took a step closer - and felt eyes boring into her skull.

 

Instinctually, she turned her whole body to the right, catching her observers - a young woman in a standard uniform, well-pressed and buttoned, olive fabric catching threads of sunlight. Her hair was graying, a stark contrast to her otherwise-youthful appearance, and her eyes were a piercing blue with, perhaps, something else there too - striking, even from a distance. Her expression was blank, with a hint of wariness. Behind her, another stood - polished tweed and academic regalia tucked into high-quality boots, a pair of glasses obscuring hazel eyes, long red hair and freckles.

 

A sour taste spread across Lettie's tongue - evidently, National Intelligence had taken interest in the stalemate at Volkov Pass, which was about as bad a sign as she could’ve fathomed. Once they started putting their fingers into a given pie, victory was more or less assured, due to the fact that important statistics like ‘probability of casualty’ and ‘officer seniority’ went out the window.

 

They’d have to ensure a surplus of body bags to cover whatever happened next.

 

Lettie cracked a salute to the two women watching her, and the young girl returned it, while the spook simply gave a nod. She turned away, making her way toward the quartermaster’s, not so readily willing to give up the initial reason for her march up base. She entered the space, finding it suspiciously empty and somewhat barren - no tea to be seen, but a single pack of cigarettes remaining. She collected it, passing it to the quartermaster - Shrew, a slight thing that matched their namesake - with a handful of scrip.

 

“Figured I’d be seein’ you - if not for the tobacco, then for the fuckin’ bulk outside, eh?” Shrew beamed at Lettie, who grimaced.

 

“I’ve no interest in addin’ another machine t’my list, Shrew. ‘specially not somethin’ new.” She put a cigarette between her lips, offering one to Shrew, who took it. “Y’know anythin’ about it?”

 

“Just rumors an’ hearsay. Mights and maybes. Heard from the conductor that they’ve dropped a few of ‘em up an’ down the front. S’a spook project, but I’m sure you’ll get roped in. You’re base mechie for a reason, aren’t you?” They gave her a smile of yellowed teeth, and she considered punching them out then and there.

 

Instead, she restrained herself.

 

“If Heather’s gonna be sendin’ us new bits t’fuck around with, they’d best start lettin’ me know ahead of time so I can negotiate a better contract. Nothin’ good for morale about makin’ a girl freeze ‘er fuckin’ tits off out here an’ dumpin’ piles of scrap on ‘er when she just wants a hot cup of tea an’ a smoke.” She stuffed the pack into her coat, gave Shrew a salute that they returned, and shifted on her heel to see the flickering of Officer’s colors in the doorway.

 

”Ms. Muir?” Captain Damos’ voice ringing out through the tent did little for her sinking mood. “A word?”

 

“Aye, cap’n.” Lettie grumbled a response, walking out into the cold once again, ignoring Shrew’s prying eyes and shit-eating grin behind her.

 

-

 

The walk from the Quartermaster’s to the Officer’s barracks wasn’t far, but it felt infinitely longer due to the fact that Damos and Lettie exchanged not a single word in the trudge over. She found herself seated at a small table in Damos’ office rather than facing him down at his desk - the first sign that this wasn’t a formal reprimand. The introduction of a pot of tea to the table was the second sign of such a thing, and the third was Damos’ expression dropping its severity the minute his ass hit the seat opposite Muir.

 

“What a shitshow this has been, eh?” He said, finally.

 

”Somethin’ like that.” Lettie wasted no time pouring herself a cup of tea. With a sip, she was unable to determine the flavor - only that it was much nicer than the swill she’d been happily choking down for months. “What’s goin’ on?”

 

“Director Blackwell told me that the Wolfhound caught your eye?” Damos took a sip of his own tea, expression placid.

”The Wolfhound? What in the fuck is-“ She paused. “…the thing that just got shipped in on railback?”

 

“The very same.” Damos pushed a sigh through pursed lips. “Fresh out of a factory back in Heather. There’re five in the whole of the Commonwealth. We’re lucky enough to have one, and-“

 

”-it’s mine to look after.” Lettie grumbled. “I understand, but-“

 

”-it’s going to get us through Volkov.” Damos rightfully disregarded her prior bitching, as her jaw dropped. “At least, if the stories are to be believed.”

 

”What do you mean? What stories?”

 

“The Department of National Intelligence has dropped one of those things in every bottleneck we’ve found ourselves in while marching further into Veriglas, and each time the bottleneck’s been cleared. Volkov’s just another… test run, I suppose, to see if they’re worth widespread deployment. I hear they cost a pretty penny, and I’m not just speaking on the materials used to construct them.” Damos picked something from beneath his fingernails with a knife as he continued speaking. “Pilots are specialized, and they need… supervision. Not standard soldiers in the slightest.”

 

“They don’t go through the academy?” Lettie raised a brow.

 

“No. They’re selected from a wide pool - details are beyond me.” Damos waved it off. “But we’re not here to discuss specifics - you’re to be retasked. I’m assigning the Pelican and Kingfishers to the junior mechanics - I want your entire focus today to be on ensuring the Wolfhound is ready to hit the pass.”

 

“But I’ve never seen the damned thing-“ Lettie started, and Damos held up a finger.

 

”You’ll be given any manual, blueprint, and manifold associated with it to look over. Tools should be fairly standard, but if there’s anything specialized required, you’ll be given that as well. I need confirmation that it’s ready to go by last-light tonight - we’re hitting Volkov tomorrow. ”

 

“ Tomorrow? ” Lettie felt the air leave her lungs. “We’re not prepared for an assault like that - we’ll lose every machine we have, not to mention-“

 

” Colette.” The Captain’s voice took on an edge of sternness that ripped through her like a bullet. “We need to be ready. I don’t care what it takes. A plane with a payload large enough to wipe out the battery beyond Volkov will be departing Heather tonight to hit here in the early hours of the morning - once that nest is kicked, I expect the hornets to come running.” Damos exhaled. “I know it’s a tight timeline, but I need it done. Can I trust you?”

 

Lettie considered her next words carefully, considered the tea in the cup in front of her, considered storming out and telling Damos to get fucked - and then, she sighed, and said, “You can trust me. It’ll get done.”

 

“Great.” Damos smiled. “Things are waiting for you at the shop. Go get ‘em.”

 

Lettie said little as she finished her cup of tea, stuck another cigarette between her lips, and made her way out of the officer’s tent.

 

-

 

The ‘shop’ was, in a word, barebones - a shack with thin tin walls and a thinner roof, protecting any of the gear that Lettie and her crew had accumulated in their time in the engineering corps. Atop her duffle, a collection of paperwork and guides and manuals had been trussed together and set carefully. Lettie collected them, slung her bag over her shoulder, and took the rest of the short walk from the ‘shop’ to the hangar that the tank-walkers called home.

 

Immediately, she was blasted with a wave of profanity and heat due to the volume of bodies within the building; not a single member of the junior mechanical crew was absent, all toiling with the most damaged of the Kingfishers to ensure that it would be ready for a march tomorrow. Comparative to the Wolfhound, it was taller - just over seventeen meters high and fifteen long, with enough cabin space to fit three crew members, two ‘primary’ legs and a third ‘bracing’ limb that could be dropped and locked in place to allow the hundred-and-five milimeter cannon atop it to fire without toppling the rest of the vessel. A slim viewscreen provided a line of sight to the world outside, while a clear turret at the bottom reinforced with ballistic glass allowed the crew to defend from any would-be saboteurs coming from below.

 

The Pelican, on the other hand, was a titan - twenty-five meters tall and twenty long, four legs, enough space for a ten-man crew to manage the operation of the machine itself and its veritable suite of weaponry - twin long-guns, autocannon nests, and a miniaturized artillery battery. It was meant to be an all-situation response, and it had worked wonders in the early days within Veriglas - until they’d met the Tsardom’s response at Volkov; a titanic machine called Mother Bear.

 

Since then, it had seemed far less impressive.

 

Lettie did a quick check with the rest of the crew, before making her way toward the Wolfhound where it sat on the far edge of the hangar. Whoever had positioned it had a sense of humor; it was ‘sitting’ on its haunches much as a dog would; front legs ‘up’ while the others settled back, its ‘head’ turned skyward as if it were howling. The machine’s back was still splayed open, and Lettie put her eyes to that first; the pilot seemed to be entirely encased in metal at the core of the machine, eyes driven into a periscopic lens that, presumably, filtered out toward the ‘head.’ Limbs would be strapped and locked in place adjacent to the vessel’s actual limbs, although how they moved about was a mystery that she hadn’t yet figured out. Most curiously, a line of ‘needles’ loomed ominously above the frame’s ‘neck’.

 

She set her bag down, peering through the pile of paperwork she’d been given on the machine before her. The terminology of it all immediately lost her, so she went to the blueprint, identifying the needles as something called a ‘neural weave’ - a term that did little but add to the mystery. She lost herself in her examination when a hand touched her shoulder, causing her to nearly jump out of her flesh before she spun on her heel, hand raised to clock whatever mechanic had thought it smart to disrupt her -

 

-and finding the young girl with the graying hair from earlier. She took a step back. “Scared the piss outta me, y’know that?”

 

“Terribly sorry.” The girl mumbled, hanging her head for a moment. “I saw you looking at Chary and figured that-“

 

” Chary? ” Lettie’s eyebrow raised. “Y’named it?”

 

“It’s my frame, so yes, I did.” She looked up. “Her name is Charybdis.”

 

“Right.” Lettie hadn’t heard of frames being named outside of their official designations before - not in a way that their pilots would hand out, of course - but this girl seemed young, so it made sense. She must’ve been a prodigy, or something of the sort. “And you? Figure I should at least know your name if I’m gonna be workin’ on your rig.”

 

“Oh, right.” The girl offered a hand, and Lettie wiped her own off on her jacket before meeting it. “They, uhm, call me Scylla. It’s not my real name, but…I sorta…it doesn’t matter.” She laughed, slightly, nervously.

 

Scylla and Charybdis. Lettie remembered reading those terms somewhere else, a long time ago - some book on mythology. She didn’t really have time to dig into the meaning now, at least. She huffed a breath, and shook Scylla’s hand. “Maybe you can help me figure out how this thing works then?”

 

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Scylla’s attention turned toward the rig. “I don’t…really know the technical terms, but it’s an all purpose machine, it’s got a solution for everything. The claws can cleave metal, so it can take out the legs of larger frames and balance on the other three while it does so. There are pockets for ordinance poked throughout it that can be filled up with whatever’s needed for a particular task - people, tanks, whatever.” She continued. “It generates a lot of heat - it gets really hot inside, not that I’d notice - so when it fills up, the heat gets focused and can punch through whatever.”

 

“Like, into the claws?” Lettie blinked. The whole machine sounded bounds ahead of whatever she’d worked with before.

 

“No, it’s….you’ll have to see it to believe it.” Scylla’s eyes glazed over for a moment, as if remembering something exceptionally beautiful in a way she couldn’t quite express so easily. “I’m sure you will, too.”

 

Lettie nodded, slowly, chewing on her lower lip. “And how does it…operate? Three weapon systems at least is complex for one brain, but there’s no space for anyone else in there that I can see.”

 

Scylla nodded. “Well, it pulls straight from the brain. Let me show you.”

 

Without warning, she undid her dress shirt, leaving her in just her bra - before that went, too. Lettie rushed to use her body to cover the girl’s flesh from the prying eyes of the junior mechanics, but in the process she saw exactly what the purpose of the so-called Neural Weave was - a scattered arrangement of holes dotted Scylla’s back, from the base of her skull down to the tip of her spine. Lettie’s eyes widened as she tried to cover the girl’s body with her shirt once again.

 

”Are you fuckin’ crazy? ” Lettie hissed. “Don’t go undressin’ in front of the crew here, they’ll fuckin’ eat you alive.”

 

“What? No. It’s okay.” Scylla whispered. “I’m okay, promise!”

 

“Goddamn it.” Lettie snarled. “Y’need… fuck. ” She sat Scylla down and finished buttoning her shirt back up. She took a breath, trying to ignore the sweat that had just beaded up around her neck. “N-nevermind, just, be careful. ” She tried to push the stress out of mind, returning to the topic at hand. “Those needles go into you? ”

 

“Yeah.” Scylla nodded. “They read neural impulses to…move the machine how you think it should move.”

 

“But it walks on four legs, doesn’t it?” Lettie blinked. “That seems like it’d be hard to get used to.”

 

Scylla looked at Lettie with somewhat-wide eyes, jaw tightened as if she was incredulous. “Oh, you really don’t know, do you?”

 

“I don’t know what? ” Lettie pushed. “This tech all seems like far-off pulp novel bullshit to me.”

 

Scylla let out a slight laugh, and shook her head. Again, the absence in the eyes. Then, she murmured, “You’ll figure it out eventually. Do you want to take a look at the, uhm… simpler mechanics?”

 

Lettie stared at her for a moment longer, and then nodded. “Probably should.”

 

Scylla joined her at her side, crouching to help her look through the blueprints to identify what she wanted to look at first - but Lettie couldn’t quite push the strangeness of the prior interaction out of mind.

 

So, she worked through it.

 

-

 

Lettie had been able to rubber stamp three of the machines under her prior purview for deployment the following morning - two of the Kingfishers, and the Pelican. Without greater understanding, she’d also been able to rubber stamp the Wolfhound - no, Charybdis for the field based upon Scylla’s guidance and the paperwork she’d seen. It was loaded with ordinance and as ‘ready’ as she could be confident in saying.

 

She leaned back in her trench bunk, ensuring that her gear was ready for the day following - binoculars, a set of quick-fix tools, a serrated knife, the trench-gun she carried in the event that anyone came over-the-top, her respirator and helmet, her jacket, her fieldplate - everything a combat engineer could need. Even if they existed outside of the standard military apparatus, they still needed to be ready for whatever came for them, and they still had an important role to play in the trenches themselves.

 

It was why Lettie had decided to sleep out here rather than back at base a half-hour away; she wanted to understand the life of the infantrymen that called this portion of the base home, away from anti-air batteries and constant patrols. The idea that annihilation could come at any moment; wayward mortar shells or a bomb from one of the few planes that the Tsar had commissioned prior to the invasion of Veriglas. Death was always a possibility, and Lettie did not, herself, want to feel immune to it.

She rolled over and sought sleep, but became aware of a rapping of knuckles on the flap that covered her portion of the trench. She leaned up, mumbling a half-hearted ‘come in’ as she anticipated one of her crew, or Shrew coming to fuck around with her.

 

Instead, Scylla entered. She was still in her finery, but less dressed-up than before; a loose shirt slung over her shoulders, her dress pants still covering her lower half. She looked nervous, and Lettie felt a pang of something in her heart.

“They have you sleepin’ out here?” Lettie blinked.

 

”Wanted me to, uh, get a feel for it. Before tomorrow.” She looked at her feet. “I…someone told me that you were a good person to talk to, about that.” She paused, trailed off. “Plus, I feel like people are staring at me, y’know…while I’m trying to sleep.”

 

“So y’came to the privacy corner.” Lettie cracked a smile. “Told ya’ that you shouldn’t put your whole chest out there.” She watched the girl’s expression drop again, and held her hands up. “I’m not here t’judge you, c’mere. You can crash in here.”

 

“Are you sure?” Scylla looked up, something like a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “I don’t want to take your space.”

 

”Ain’t really my space. It’s a trench.” Lettie scoffed. “What’s mine is yours. Come enjoy it.” She cleared half of the bunk as she sat up. “Y’smoke?”

 

“What? No, I, uhm. I haven’t.” She looked at her hands, once again. Lettie put a hand on her upper arm, exposed as the loose shirt fell.

 

“Do you want to? Big day tomorrow, might help with your nerves.” She grabbed the box of cigarettes off of her nightstand, opened it and offered one to Scylla. She eyeballed it, turned it down - and then turned back toward it and collected a cigarette. She stuck it between her lips, and Lettie did the same, torching both of them with her lighter.

 

“Don’t hold the smoke in your lungs, just…let it drift out. Need your lungs in good shape for tomorrow.” She beamed, and Scylla laughed, somewhat, before shaking her head. Her anxiety was pervasive, bleeding into Lettie, even; she needed to push it out. ”But that’s a whole night away - we don’t need to concern ourselves with that right now.”

 

Scylla nodded, but said nothing else; she kept her lips pursed and her words absent. Lettie enjoyed the rest of her cigarette alongside the girl as she nestled back into the bunk, making herself comfortable. At a point, Scylla let the thing dangle between her lips and burn down - Lettie took it and crushed it into an ashtray at her bedside, crushing her own following. She anticipated a bit of protest or apology from Scylla - instead, she stared blankly ahead. Lettie softened - the poor thing must’ve been scared shitless. Her brain danced along the vast matrix of possibility; had she even deployed before? If she had, had she seen a front like Volkov - especially given that she was the one that was supposed to break the months-long stalemate?

 

Every greenhorn had their first front, it was a necessary right of passage for any soldier - but to be thrust into war in a land like this, which had stolen so much from the Commonwealth already, was inhumane. She tried to conceptualize Scylla’s mind, her headspace, where she was at - and found herself nowhere good.

 

 

Her heart ached, and she reached out, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Scylla was startled, shoulders tense and hair on end, looking to Lettie with an anxious grimace. “H-hm?”

 

”What’s on your mind?” Lettie asked, quiet, placid, steady. Scylla calmed again.

 

“I’ve…never deployed, before - not formally. Charybdis and I paired well in training, but I’ve heard training is different - it’s hard to keep things clear when you’re being…shot at, you know? A-and it’s real out there, even if I trust Her when She says I’ll be safe.” Scylla looked at her hands. “It’s just…hard to believe it when it hasn’t happened yet.”

 

“Who’s her? ” Lettie asked. Scylla’s eyes widened.

 

“Oh, Director Blackwell? She’s…well, she’s phenomenal. She picked me out, you know. By hand. She said I could be useful, even if other people had passed me over because I was, uh…” She had a distant smile on her face. “You know, not…made like this. Pulled me out of the care home without even…hesitating. She gave me my new name, and medications, and, uh…new paperwork and everything. I didn’t have to do anything in return, really, but…I offered to serve. It felt like the right thing to do.” Scylla paused, as if remembering the interaction. “She took the offer, but I expected that. It was Her right to, anyway.”

 

Lettie put two and two together in her head, and grimaced. She’d known, of course, that the war effort was dire - but to take advantage of a girl who’d been shuttled from system to system because she didn’t fit was vile. Now, they were going to shove her in some slapshod combat frame, stick needles in her back, and throw her at the single hardest target Lettie’d seen in the entirety of her time in the service - it felt wrong.

 

“Word of advice, kid?” Lettie spoke up, and Scylla broke her trance, looking back at Lettie. “Don’t get into hero worship - high rankin’ people didn’t get there by bein’ good folk, or anything.” She watched Scylla’s face twist in confusion, and followed up, waving her hands along. “If somethin’ feels like too good a deal t’be true, it is. I just don’t wanna see you get hurt or nothin’ cause she, uh…leaves you out to dry.”

 

“Ah.” Scylla mused. “Lots of people’ve told me that, but She’s kept me safe. I trust Her a lot.”

 

“Alright.” Lettie shrugged. “Guess that’s fair.”

 

They sat in silence for a while, and Lettie was about to call it for the night, before Scylla cleared her throat. “Hey, Lettie?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Have you, uh…ever kissed anyone, before?”

 

Lettie gave her half a smile, and said, “Yeah. Plenty of people. You?”

 

“N-no, I…it didn’t…feel right.” She laughed. “I was waiting for my first one to be when I felt better in my skin, but…Director Blackwell just took me right to work. N-not like that was bad, or anything! I just hoped that I’d have gotten the chance, before, uh…getting out here.” She crossed her arms. “How does it… feel?"

 

Lettie snorted. Scylla wasn’t the first girl she’d had to do this with, but she was one of the sweeter ones. Instead of trying to wax poetic on the feeling of another girl’s lips, she said, “D’you just wanna find out?”

 

Scylla blinked. “You’d-”

 

“We might die tomorrow, honey.” Lettie cut her off. “Don’t want t’send you to the grave not knowin’ what it feels like.”

 

Scylla sat for a moment, breathed - in, out - and then said, “Y-yes, then. I’d like to know.”

 

Lettie let out a brief sigh, and turned to face Scylla. She had some years on the girl - not enough to make her uncomfortable, but enough that she’d had to take pause. Was this going to be something that bit her in the ass if they survived tomorrow’s siege? Was she going to regret this come morning? Was there a chance that she’d get sent to a tribunal for improper conduct around a younger soldier - especially one with the eye of National Intelligence? She didn’t know - couldn’t be sure about anything, in these days.

 

She sighed, and pressed her lips to Scylla’s, without waiting, without warning. Scylla squeaked, then leaned into it - crashed into Lettie like a wave. The two of them remained there for a long moment, before Lettie pulled away, ran her fingers through her hair, and said, “That a good enough example for y’?”

 

“I-I think so.” Scylla’s face was red with blush. “...if I perform well tomorrow, could you…?”

 

Lettie snorted. “If you get us through Volkov, darlin’, there’ll be plenty more where that came from - an’ not just from me. Probably get a smooch from every pair of lips on base.”

 

Scylla’s blush deepened, and she mumbled something under her breath. Lettie raised a brow, but Scylla didn’t answer her, instead putting her face in her hands. Lettie puffed out a breath, and laid back in the bunk, leaving enough space for the other girl to curl up if she were so inclined.

 

Within a few moments, she’d taken Lettie’s offer - found home in the crook of her arm, head facing outward. Lettie absently ran a hand through her hair as night rolled over them like a crashing wave, sending them to sleep, mere hours before lead and fire would wash over them like a cold front.

 

If for no reason than the shared moment prior, Lettie prayed that they’d both make it through the desperate assault the day following.

 

-

 

By the time Lettie awoke, Scylla was already gone - and the sounds of troop mobilization rang out through the trench like an alarm clock all their own. Lettie wasted little time pulling her gear on, assembling herself in necessary fashion within ninety seconds of being on her feet, pushing into the trenches shortly after. She wasted little time navigating winding tunnels toward the front - a handful of soldiers walking alongside her, marching onto their own goals.

 

In the distance, she could see it - the Pass, lit up with flares in the early morning light. The scent of diesel hung low in the air already, punching through Lettie’s respirator and staining the inside of her nostrils with a chemical scent. She tried to ignore the fact that Mother Bear and her cubs waited on the horizon, tried to ignore the fact that the air was about to fill with more ordinance than she could fathom mere seconds into the Commonwealth’s approach, tried to ignore the fact that some spook working for National Intelligence had determined that the best course of action was to shove a sweet, gentle girl into a coffin and throw her at the enemy.

 

She found her place - an elevated offshoot from the primary front line trench - and ripped her binoculars from their casing, laying along the ground and making herself as small as she could while setting her eyes ahead - and she breathed.

 

Silence swept over the battlefield. A soft wind swept over the trenches. Time seemed to slow.

 

The payload-laden plane promised by Heather swept low across the ground, a paltry attempt at avoiding detection until it got close enough to its target, ascending with a suddenness that brought Lettie’s heart up into her throat. It crested the Pass, and a volume of ordinance slipped free of its belly - hopefully crushing the artillery batteries beyond Volkov into cinder and slag. An eerie silence fell over the world for a moment as the blast-clouds screamed skyward - and then, the first command, punctuated with the scream of a whistle-

 

 

Lettie grabbed her trench-gun and slung it under-arm, binoculars deathgripped in her right hand as the first charge pushed upward - she remembered the teaching of an old sergeant, to keep the thicker men in front of her so as to act as a shield. Gunfire popped up around them; stray riflemen and machine gun emplacements at a far enough distance to avoid overt lethality, soldiers in front of her taking rounds into heavy plating and moving onward. Overhead, Pelican’s frontmost leg crushed fortifications into soil, her main gun searching for targets still yet out of reach. She watched as it nearly plowed through a battalion of trench-runners too close to it for comfort, a quick reprimand coming from the commandant before he reminded them of the stakes; in this no man’s land, you killed or you were killed. Hesitancy only assured the certainty of the latter.

 

 

Down, into the next trench - neutral territory, now. The Tsar’s men hadn’t managed to push up quite so far, yet, but Lettie knew how this worked; they’d be here sooner than later, lying in wait, clearing out the first rushing wave in a salvo of shotshell before their marksmen picked off the back-line. Her eyes went back to Pelican as it took another step forward, both the remaining Kingfishers at its sides locking their third-limb in place, preparing to full-send a vicious cannonade across the battlefield, an onslaught to crush whatever resistance waited on the other side of the Pass. Before they could launch, a scream rang out through the air, and Lettie’s brain replayed the noise from the hundred times she’d heard it in training, the commandant’s voice matching the thought crawling up in her brain.

 

 

She dove to the ground, watching as three separate munitions detonated in mid-air, multiplicative as they ripped the sky apart. A quick estimation of losses from the event was nearly impossible - the Pelican went down, that much she could hear, and a few of the soldiers who’d positioned themselves higher in the trench were splattered across the ground like reddened mulch. The few soldiers remaining with Lettie in the trench tried to pull themselves together with a quickness; ahead of them, brutish screams and the sound of a trench-run opposite their own.

 

The Tsar’s men were closing, and the Commonwealth had not a chance in Hell if they were outnumbered - something that was almost a certainty.

 

For a moment, fear paralyzed her - before she heard it; a howl rippling through the air, rolling like thunder - and the thudding of something heavy, a one-machine cavalry charge. Whatever was bounding toward the trench was ripping the Earth up as it ran - plowing through soil and stone like it was nothing , throwing debris everywhere . She saw the telltale red-and-brown of the Veriglan uniform coming over the trench wall, but it was gone in a moment in a flash of steel and sound. From her grounded position, Lettie watched as flesh and cloth became one, soldiers in the path of chainsaw-lined claws shredded into gore-confetti, tens of lives snuffed out, reduced to undifferentiated meat that painted the frontmost wall of the trench.

 

The raiding party that had pushed up moments before had been reduced to nothing but waste - and in their place, Charybdis remained. Lettie’s brain struggled to process that the beast in front of her, its claws dripping with fresh blood and sinew, contained the girl who’d asked so gently for a first kiss the night prior. It stood on its haunches for a brief moment, surveying the gathering of troops before it, making a determination - before turning away. Something inside the vessel throttled, and it shifted - bounding forward, out of the trench, onto the next.

 

Lettie moved to follow, to get eyes on it, before the second wave dragged her back. A trench commander barked something in her face, and she fought the urge to slug him in the jaw - instead, letting herself fall back. Her eyes searched for the remnants of the 35th and found them - the leftmost Kingfisher stood as the last conventional machine on the field, as anticipated, Pelican lay in three pieces on the ground behind them, while the rightmost Kingfisher buried itself nose-first in the soil, billowing smoke from a shattered hull.

 

She couldn’t think about them, now; not the machines she’d serviced, nor the crews that operated them. Instead, her vision swept ahead - Charybdis was diving in-and-out of trenches, sending up notable plumes of blood and ordinance where it leapt. Fire from the Tsardom’s emplacements and their own Light Cavalry unit had been refocused on the diving machine, something like a werewolf from legend in the way it cleaved entire ranks with its blades. However, it had yet to reach the most pressing target - the Mother Bear had arrived, flanked by a handful of cubs. She had to wonder - would Charybdis even be capable of matching the strength of the most vicious machine she’d ever encountered?

 

Before Lettie could dwell on it further, a new commanding voice sounded in her ears, her body moving to adhere to the command before she’d even thought about it.

 

 

Into the next trench, they went - trampling through corpses that looked like they’d been ram-rodded into a woodchipper five at a time. Progressing forward was eerily placid, likely because many of the soldiers and nested machine-guns had been dispatched with a horrific immediacy. Lettie pushed it out of mind, kept her eyes ahead, and they moved on -

 

 

- again, and again, and again - progressing up a field that had been emptied of life long before their boots had the privilege to touch the soil. The efficiency of the violence done here made Lettie’s brain spin - somehow, they’d gotten further in an hour than the last few months combined.

 

She hated to admit it, but maybe the powers-that-be knew what they were doing.

 

Maybe.

 

Behind them, she could hear the telltale sign of the last Kingfisher locking into place, preparing to let loose another shell - but Mother Bear had noticed, and turned toward their advance. Lettie watched as its main gun started to drift downward, so directly aimed that she could almost visualize how the slug within sat inside its barrel - and the machine bucked as though it was about to fire, to put their trench run to a violent end.

 

She whispered a prayer on lips that were soon to be dead, and prepared to close her eyes and meet God, before a purplish-red glow caught her attention. Just beyond their trench, Charybdis set itself on all fours. Light emanated from the exhaust-and-munition ports scattered about its body, steam radiating from its ‘mouth’ - and a wave of heat radiated outward from the beast, so intense that it could be felt even in the trench, before a singularly focused beam of energy ripped through the air, punching into the Mother Bear’s cannon, puncturing the already-primed shell inside. Mother Bear stood for a moment as a glut of smoke and fire spilled free from the newly-breached tank, before it went up entirely - an echoing bang that ripped across the whole of the battlefield, a last testament from a heinous vessel, before it toppled forward and crumpled to the ground.

 

A trapped breath left Lettie’s lungs, and the troops around her gathered into a crescendo, a singular victorious cry as the Veriglan forces scrambled - Mother Bear’s cubs were trying to pull away, but they were met by a still-rushing Charybdis - and whatever soldiers had pushed up that far in separate marches, hurling grenades at the less-armored frames, cutting them down under a deluge of small arms and ordinance. Soldiers dropped rifles aside, and Lettie did the same - breaking into a sprint, an up-down motion as they approached and ran through trenches sodden with gore.

 

Despite the carnage, the staggering loss of life, what was promised had come true - Volkov Pass had fallen. Lettie could scarcely believe it, hope that such a thing would ever occur having fled her heart a few weeks prior - but that hope was quashed with a startling immediacy as her eyes set on Charybdis. Once again, it sat on its haunches, claws ‘up’ dripping with assorted viscera. She watched as it shifted in place; vents open-shutting, jaw twitching - and for a moment, worry crept up, the hooting and hollering of the gathered assembly seeming to stress the machine’s inhabitant out.

 

Then, she saw it; the ordinance slots opened, and Lettie’s voice kicked out of her chest like a warhorn.

 

 

The beast seized, jolting to a sudden stop . The slots slammed shut. Its gaze turned toward her, and she watched it calm - shoulders slumped, body settled. A few soldiers laughed at her expense - a typical overreaction in the aftermath of battle, but a moment of levity nonetheless. They remained blissfully unaware that they were moments from certain death or disfigurement, that the machine resting feet away saw them as a simple additive to the carnage it had already committed within the trenches. Its vision was solely focused on Lettie, now; she imagined Scylla’s eyes buried in that periscopic lens, meeting Lettie’s own, postured like a trained hound awaiting a new command.

 

Lettie was grateful for her respirator; it helped obscure the obvious fear wrought across her face.

 

Charybdis remained at attention for a moment longer, and then, it departed - rushing back toward the base, diving in and out of trenches with far less fanfare than its initial approach. Lettie breathed, ripped her mask free and indulged in fresh air, turning half-heartedly toward soldiers who were already mid-celebration. Some had already produced bottles of gin out of rucksacks, earning brief scoldings from commanding officers who protested out of tradition rather than actual care or worry. A bottle made its way into Lettie’s hand, and she held it, stared at her own reflection in the clear glass.

 

Unable to muster up the stomach for a swig, she turned on her heel and returned home.

 

-

 

The Commonwealth trench was quiet on her return - with the majority of the base’s occupants having rushed Volkov in the hour prior, most still remained in the midst of celebration in the field, or were plotting new fortifications to push the frontline further up. Frustration and anxiety in equal measure prevented Lettie from engaging in either measure, and so she endeavored to slump in her bed and sulk - until she noted the missive lain on her bed, a message from a courier, requesting her appearance at Captain Damos’ tent once again.

 

She wasted little time, disentangling from her trench-run gear and stripping down to a work shirt, trousers, and a long coat. The half-hour march back toward the Officer’s barracks was made marginally more miserable than the last due both to her mood and her forgetfulness depriving her of another cigarette to alleviate the former, having left them at her bedside. The closer she drew, the more her anger toward Damos fermented, and she wondered exactly what the Captain could have to say to her - a tongue lashing regarding the state of the two tank-walkers that hadn’t returned from the march, or a reprimand for shouting at Charybdis? She had half a mind to lay into Damos himself for precipitating the circumstances that almost allowed a slaughter to occur.

 

Rage boiled up in her belly as her march turned into a forceful stride, and she stormed into the Officer’s tent with a curse on her tongue -

 

- and found the spook from before sitting behind Damos’ desk, hands crossed.

 

“Ms. Muir.” The operative’s voice was placid and calm, devoid of any notable accent or affect. “I must admit, I’m surprised you arrived so early. I figured I’d have some more… one on one time with Scylla before our conversation.”

 

“One on one time?” Lettie raised a brow, before she saw her; the girl from earlier, stripped down to naught but her bra and a pair of loose shorts, kneeling at the operative’s side. Her eyes were glassy and gray, staring dead ahead; her face devoid of emotion. Black particulate adorned her lips; partially open, teeth just barely visible in the space between them.

 

“After a successful mission, a girl needs her relaxation, does she not?” She grimaced, slightly. “Granted, she hasn’t quite taken to me fully…but that’s alright; this was never meant to be permanent.” The operative dug into Damos’ desk, pulling free a slim wooden box marked with the Commonwealth’s insignia. She opened it, and inside were two long cigars with wooden tips. She collected one, herself, and offered the other to Lettie - without much consideration, Lettie took it. The operative reached for a book of matches, but Lettie had already removed her lighter from her jacket pocket, igniting the tip of her own cigarrette and, shortly after, lighting the operative’s when she pushed the tip forward.

 

A brief pull told Lettie exactly what she was dealing with, here; it was expensive, high grade tobacco adorned with vanilla and infused with cognac or brandy, the kind of cigarrette she’d save up two months of scrip for, only to find that some officer had bought them all out the minute they’d arrived. She let the gentle smoke drift out from between her lips, and searched for an ashtray - the operative clicked her tongue, and dipped the cigarette downward, ashing it into Scylla’s mouth.

 

“Now, you.” The operative smiled. Lettie wordlessly declined, crushing the tip of the cigar into Damos’ desk, dropping the half-finished remnant into the freshly-created pile of ash. The woman across from her scoffed. “Such a shame, she’d have enjoyed that.”

 

“Jus’ like she enjoyed bein’ shoved in that fuckin’ machine, then?” Lettie spat, hand slamming into the desk. “I don’t think she enjoys much of anythin’. I think you got her so fucked up on your kindness that she doesn’t know how to say no."

 

The operative nodded as Lettie spoke, her lips curling into a smile. “As she told you, she offered her service; there was no coercion, no forceful words, just… patriotism and promise. The least she could do to repay what I’d done for her, hm?” She put the tip of the cigar out on Scylla’s forehead, laying it back in the case she’d retrieved it from initially. “Quite frankly, Ms. Muir, I believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, here. My name is Olive Blackwell, Department of National Intelligence - and Program Director for…this whole thing . ” She offered a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you - the work you did to get Charybdis up to snuff for the attack on Volkov was impressive, but admittedly, I’m more interested in the work you did with Scylla herself.”

 

Rage continued to boil-over in Lettie’s brain, demanding that she get to her feet, grab Blackwell’s hand and yank her down into the desk. She wanted to take Scylla in her arms and get her back into the trenches, figure out a plan to save the girl and avoid a tribunal at the same time - but her body refused to cooperate with either line of thinking, and so she remained sitting, scowling at Blackwell, who simply rolled her eyes in response. She continued. “Scylla said the two of you had a wonderful time last night, that she felt like she’d bonded with you. It’s quite remarkable - she’s had such a hard time bonding so far. Not a single operator’s taken to her and passed muster - not long enough to serve in the field, anyway.” She waved her hand as she continued on. “But you, Colette, have left such an impact on my little project already. To be able to get her to stand down in the heat of battle, a high stress moment? That’s almost unheard of.” She got to her feet, slowly. “I have to know - what’s your secret? What’s your method?”

 

“I don’t have a fuckin’ method.” Lettie hissed. “I heard ‘er out an’ gave comfort. Felt like I was the only one who’d ever listened - willin’ to bet that’s true.”

 

“Mm…no. I’d bet there was something else. What was it? A first kiss? A tender embrace? Or…” She clicked her tongue. “Did you fuck my pilot, Ms. Muir?”

 

“Absolutely not.” Lettie snarled. “I don’t touch people so new to this, s’not fair to them. I’d never .”

 

Something in the room shifted, there; Blackwell’s eyes lit up like candles, and a sinking feeling grippled Lettie’s stomach. The director leaned in toward Lettie.

 

“Oh, you will. ” She turned on her heel, her voice taking on the inflection of a teacher in a Sunday School. “Scylla, darling? Why don’t you go make Ms. Muir happy, hm?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” Scylla’s voice rang out; empty and hollow, she turned her eyes toward Lettie, getting to her feet. Lettie tried to push herself out of the desk chair, and when that failed, brought her legs up to knock herself free - instead, she simply knocked herself over, laying helplessly on the floor while Scylla’s grabbing hands tore at her clothing. Lettie cursed, bit, snarled - it did little, for Scylla’s march was undeterred by whatever pain Lettie attempted to inflict, her mission continuing on against Lettie’s protests. Blackwell settled herself atop Damos’ desk, hands fumbling with a film camera as Scylla’s assault continued.

 

“It started with the identification of a target population.” Blackwell mused, quietly, hands trying to familiarize themselves with controls - knobs, buttons, the lens. “Delayed orphans, shellshocked washouts, abandoned transsexuals - the dregs of this little societal experiment, shown little warmth and kindness in the whole of their short lives. A hand outstretched from someone like myself may as well have been God itself reaching out to save them, to offer a cure to their desire. We found the first bridge to trust wasn’t a grandiose gesture or large material offering; rather, it was simply…making them feel seen. ”

 

Scylla wasted little time; she’d dragged Lettie out of the chair she’d found herself trapped in, pressing her back to the cold concrete beneath the Officer’s tent; dextrous fingers had torn clothing away from both of their bodies, and Scylla pressed her lips to Lettie’s cheek, working toward her collarbone while a hand clutched her breast. There was no rhythm to it, no feeling; it was a mechanical, trained motion, a learned behavior.

 

“Service as repayment was never requested, nor required. Compelled, surely, but what else is a renewed body to do but offer itself up as payment? These subjects had so little, you understand - there was nothing they could do to make up for what we’d given them, save for sell themselves to us. From there, we dug around as necessary - searched for weak points in the nervous system, ensured structural stability of the brain, and began the process of conditioning.”

 

Then, she felt it; Scylla’s length settled against the inside of Lettie’s thigh, the younger girl curling into her, dragging herself closer to her goal. Lettie wanted to buck, wanted to scream, wanted to protest - but she couldn’t muster up the energy to make a sound, let alone fight back. Tears streamed down her cheeks as Scylla’s empty eyes met hers, and Scylla’s lips pressed against her own as she thrusted into Lettie.

 

“For a pilot to be effective, they need to think like the animal we expect them to become - part of that process involves bonding to an alpha, an operator. The bonding process provides an anchor for a pilot’s better self to cling to, a trusted keeper of the human-half that shuts down when the neural weave becomes active. With an operator, a wolf is never far from home, never fully lost, never entirely gone - no matter how violent things get.” A sigh left Blackwell’s lips, something so unfathomably frustrating in the face of the rape occurring before her. “Bonding should be easy, it should be simple - with Scylla, it wasn’t quite so. Her brain is… complicated. Stronger than most. Seemingly, it needs something more potent, considering how many operators I’ve had to wash out into pilots trying to find something that worked. Hell, I was ready to fill the role for this little operation, but I didn’t need to - she found you, after all. ”

 

Scylla continued her one-sided aggression toward Lettie, an act more akin to masturbation than anything else, meat emptily loving meat. Lettie actively pushed her mind out of her body as Blackwell spoke, as Scylla grunted, as she was defiled. She managed to summon enough strength to move her fingers, but did nothing to fight back; instead, she drove her fingers into the concrete with enough force to split her nails.

 

“So, we’ll see if this works. Trial and error, the basis of any good scientific method. You were her first kiss - it only makes sense that you become her first lay, too. If my hypothesis holds, this will be enough; she’ll be tethered to you irreversibly, you will have become an anchor. Quite the promotion for a mechanic of little renown.” Blackwell clicked her tongue. “And just to ensure you don’t get any ideas of running for the hills once that paralytic leaves your system…”

 

The unmistakable click of the camera in Blackwell’s hands joined the cacophony of wet noise within the tent - joined shortly thereafter by a near-animalistic moan, ripping free from Scylla’s mouth as she dumped phantom seed into Lettie’s womb. The girl fell away, rolling onto her side, curling in on herself; she slammed her eyes shut, but Lettie could see, for a brief moment, the color and consciousness returning to them. Sickness curdled in her stomach - had she had the strength to throw up, she would’ve.

 

“Now, there’s no doubts about what you are, Colette; a statutory rapist, an abuser of positional advantage, a fucker-of-labrats. Photographic evidence proves it, after all. There won’t ever be an official report, of course - I don’t dabble in formal consequence - but people will know. You’ll keep your rank, presumably, but your reputation and all the perks with it will fade into the ether. No crew will allow you to sit at its head, no pilot worth their salt will allow you to touch their machine. You’ll become a ghost story, dead in the minds of those you called ‘comrade’ long before you pass, your voice uttered for the last time well before you’ve been laid to rest.”

 

Blackwell crouched next to Lettie, pushing hair out of her eyes, holding the undeveloped reel of film between her fingers, taunting her. Lettie’s senses were still dulled, her mind trying to piece itself back together and tether to itself once again - but, just barely, she thought she could hear Scylla crying.

 

“You won’t need to worry about that future, though. You work in intelligence - or, well, you work for me. I’ll keep you safe.” The Director grinned, all perfect teeth and hollow emotion. “We’ll ship out tomorrow, get you and your pup back to Heather for proper training. Assuming you make it through as the wonderful couple I know you to be, we’ll ship you right back out - again and again, as long as it takes, until we’ve won. ” She clapped Lettie on her cheek with an open palm. “They’ll call you a hero. Won’t that be nice?”

 

Again, Lettie wanted to spit, wanted to bite - she did nothing. She stared blankly ahead.

 

“I’m sure it will.” She stood, finely-polished boots clicking on concrete as she made her way toward the door. “I’ll give you two the tent, then - lots to discuss, ends of the leash to get familiar with. I’m sure the Captain won’t mind you using his space.” She paused. “Just…don’t stay up too late, hm? We’ve a train to catch, bright and early. ”

 

Then, she was gone. The hollow feeling in Lettie’s chest threatened to drown her entirely, drag her below like a riptide and never let her go - before Scylla’s soft cries turned into full-blown sobs. Something about them brought Lettie back to herself - second-by-second, she regained some semblance of consciousness - and she turned, collected the pitiful thing in her strong arms as she had the night before, clutched her to her chest despite the violence of what had occurred just moments earlier.

She’d not had a choice, Lettie understood; commands were commands, and when you were as empty as Scylla, you did what you were told. She tried not to hold it against her as she wrapped her arms around the girl, rubbed her heaving shoulders, pressed lips to the burn scar on her forehead.

 

Regardless of how she felt, they were in this together, now; a perfect pair, ordained as a hundred thousand others had been before them. They were entwined, anchored, bound.

If they drowned, they’d do so together.