The sun wanes. I am beset by forces too high in number for any single pilot to dispatch without being overrun. Any average pilot, that is, in any average mech. I can tell by the way the imps slow their approach and organise themselves into a circle that they know they face neither. That’s fine, it’s better this way. My old CO told me not to get too cocky in the saddle, that it has a way of making you feel invincible moments before you’re being torn to shreds by heavy artillery fire or opponents just as huge and self-assured. I ignore her warnings; we’re not in the army anymore, just a band of resistance fighters playing war with a military that puts its might before morals.

Which is to say, despite the shitty odds, I cannot help but smile. Thanks for delivering yourselves unto your judge, jury and executioner, you miserable fascist pricks.

“Lyz, we’re all in the red here, no choice but to pull back.” Speaks the aforementioned former commanding officer, who knows me well enough by now to add “I’d suggest you haul ass out of there as well, but we both know you won’t. Give ‘em hell and come home safe, you hear? Buried enough of my own men to last a lifetime.” Yeah, the last of which she had to put down with her own hulking hands, like a rabid dog, after what the imps did to her. I… don’t want to think about that. We’ve been deploying with cyanide ever since that incident to avoid the threat of capture at all costs.

“Awww, you worried about me, sir? You do know who you’re talking to right?” I’ve enough confirmed kills—air, land and sea—to have earned my ace status thrice over. Besides my own skill, I’m also partnered with the pride of the resistance itself, which is arguably more famous than its hero pilot. Suggesting my Daedaleon isn’t a one-of-a-kind miracle of engineering amongst the rest of our rank and file warmechs would be fine material for your impromptu comedy set in the Chione Base’s crowded mess hall, but in any other context it’d make you liable for a slugging—from yours truly. I can’t help but act precious, since the team that built it for me, to be a symbol of hope for the resistance, now lay dead. No fancy story there, it’s just how it goes in a war like this especially with such uneven numbers. The only reason we’re not losing is because we have something the imps don’t: heroes like me.

“I still hold rank over you in spirit, you little shit. Listen just… don’t get yourself killed—or worse—playing up the hero crap, okay? No cameras or impressionable young girls watching, so just fight to survive and ah… try to keep Leon in good shape too eh? Repairs on that girl cost us half our ‘military budget’ and you’d never guess who has to foot most of the bill.”

The voice on the other end of the line is crackly, and I let the static soothe me. It masks her usual shrillness. “Sir, yes sir!” I declare, half mocking; half sincere. The imps aren’t budging, which is awfully fucking polite of them, so I suppose I’ll have to take the fight to them. “Catch you later, ‘kay? You’re breaking up anyway, and I seem to be holding up my dance partners.”

I hear the woman’s muddled affirmation and smirk, glad that there’s someone out there who still worries over me, rather than for hope I represent. Being a hero is a terrifying burden, so I’ve tried my best to pretend like none of this gets to me. It’s working, I think. I just need to kill these bastards, earning my ace status yet again like I’m running laps on my credentials, and make it back home for the miserable gruel they serve up at Chione.

My eyes glance the surrounding enemy mechs and armoured vehicles, while Leon’s sensors relay much more than my eyes ever could and feed it back to me via neural implant. These are light frames, standard mass produced imp fodder that can’t so much as wield rifles with the stopping power to down a thing like me on account of the weight and recoil. They’re strictly melee units, practically kamikaze pilots that rely on their numbers and superior speed to swarm the field before you can down them all. I do have to be careful with them because their chain swords will still rip my armour to pieces if they’re lucky enough to connect, but it’s the ones on treads I need to keep a closer eye on. Their heavy artillery can blow me to kingdom come right here and now, without need to move any closer, and yet they hold their fire. What gives? Naturally, my sensor range is long enough and Leon’s automated defence systems are fast enough that I could survive the initial volley before I’d even have to grip my manual controls and start playing serious, but… they ain’t firing at all. What’s the bluff? Even the warmechs’ chains stopped whirring. It’s like they mean to call a truce, are they that scared shitless of Daedaleon’s reputation that they’d defect? We have been going pretty hard with the latest recruitment drive…

“First Lieutenant Lyzer Kaere,” speaks a booming voice from across the… no, it’s coming directly through my neurals? “I’ve come to speak to you.” The voice is soft and gentle, yet undeniably firm at the same time. A woman’s voice. An Imperial Officer’s. She addressed me like I’m still commissioned too, but she’ll be disappointed to know I’m just a killer for a cause now, masquerading as a public saint. Soldiers have orders, but a bitch like me doesn’t have a leash to pull anymore.

Unsure how to respond to a voice quite literally in my head, I decide to open the line and hope my retort reaches. “Yeah? Well, I’ve come to kill you. Every last one of you parasites will die by these hands today, and I’ll keep on killing you until you finally stop fucking coming. Is that clear?” I’m getting worked up. I sit back against the scuffed leather seat of Leon’s cockpit and let out a long, cleansing exhale. Fighting is much easier than talking, I don’t like this at all.

“Hm. Crystal.” I can hear her fucking smirk like it’s right here, in my head. “But you may be surprised to learn that we’ve no intention of fighting you today. I’m sure your reputation precedes you. We’ve no plans to surrender, either. In fact, I mean to negotiate yours.”

My surrender? Is this imperial cunt serious? A part of me shudders at the memory of Cerre, who was in my deployment when she was captured and came back as one of them. No, not one of them; she was simply alongside their sleek black death machines, piloting her own, fighting with an animalistic rage I can’t describe as anything but broken. Like they scooped out everything good about her and replaced it with bloodlust—and a deep fear of disobeying the orders from her torturers. At least, that’s the theory. That she was beaten and worn down by her jailers until defection seemed her only solace. Cerre was one of us. One of our best!

So much for calming down, I’m more worked up than ever. My trigger finger’s awful fucking itchy and I’m just waiting for this imp whore to give me any reason—like I don’t already got hundreds. Even after Cerre, I refused to bring those suicide pills aboard my Leon and taint it with doubt at our success. It’s not kill or be killed; I reject option two entirely.

“How ‘bout we negotiate whether I make this merciful or take my damn time? No campaign cameras out here, lucky for me and not so much for you and yours. Most downed pilots bleed out in their cockpits with internal haemorrhages or crushed ribs, vomiting and shitting themselves in their steel tombs before they kick it. Usually, I make sure it’s clean… I’m a humanist, or whatever the fuck.”

The woman I’ve been talking to, assuming I haven’t simply gone nuts, remains silent through my threat and lets me say my piece. I can’t say I’m particularly grateful, and something tells me—before she even opens her mouth—that I shouldn’t have wasted my breath trying to shake these unfeeling monsters. Anybody complicit in what they did to Cerre doesn’t have a heart to strike fear into. Oh well, those words were mostly for my sake, anyway.

“Miss Kaere,” she begins, sending a chill down my spine at just how unmoved she sounds. I thought she knew who I was; I downed upwards of twenty enemy units single-handedly in my most documented—and oft re-enacted by kids too young to know what war is—sortie. Here, I count eleven. “If there’s one thing the two of us can agree on, weary as we are, it is that you are not fit to be called a hero. You’re an insult to the very concept, that much is clear. So I’ll give you two options. Offer yourself to me willingly, admitting what you are—and what you’re not—so that I may show you the truth of yourself and, in turn, show the world. Or, bury your head in the sand—force me to do this the hard way, to kick you dragging and screaming into the light and operate on your soul with a blunted scalpel.”

“What the fuck?”

“Your former comrade, Cerre, chose the first option, though it took a few days of isolation and candid conversation to convince her that this is not worth doing the hard way. What really sold her, I believe, was showing her my methods. After I explained—in great detail—what I was going to do to her, and what would remain of her afterwards, she agreed to become my loyal dog with the least intrusive procedures I could offer her.” There is a short pause, within which I am too shaken to appropriately respond, before the woman continues. “She was a good Hound. You’d be a better one.”

My fingers clench the controls so tightly my knuckles become pure white, and a moment later my vision joins it in a sudden overwhelming flash! All of Leon’s sensors are on the fritz, so I’m completely blind. Panic rocks me into action, deploying external shields as well as my energy demanding hardlight armour. My eyes strain against the light, but I cannot see a single fucking thing through the glass before me. Every single enemy unit must be shining some kind of spotlight at me, except that doesn’t make sense. The visor should… oh.

It’s not coming from outside. As I blink again, I realise that I cannot see the inside of the cockpit either. The controls, my own legs, all have been drowned out by the void of white that has taken over. I always thought that being blinded would drop you into abject darkness, but here I feel the brightness with such vivid intimacy that I’m straining in discomfort with no way of mitigating the unpleasantness.

“New prototype technology being developed as we speak. I suppose that, on paper, the purpose of this mission was ‘field testing’ for the equipment we’re referring to as ‘Neural Jammers’. Of course, you were my goal from the start. I would not have taken to the field myself were it not, I’m hardly a soldier.”

“Unnhhh… wh-who the hell are you?” My head pangs, and my vision does not return. I’ve lost all feedback from my Leon’s sensors now and the ringing in my ears is making me nauseous.

“You’ll find out very soon. After I find out which of my two paths you choose. Whichever you do, it’ll be the last independent choice you ever make. My guidance will become your everything. It’s just, well… if you choose to make this harder than it needs to be, if you go with option number two… I’m afraid what’s left of you won’t be able to take up piloting a magnificent warmech like this ever again. I’ve decided to relay this immutable fact to you first and foremost because it was this truth that ultimately convinced Cerre to make the better choice.”

“S-Say her fucking name one more time, I dare you!” Everything burns. I can barely think straight as the ringing intensifies. What did they call it? A Neural Jammer? How the hell is it getting past Daedaleon’s defences? I think I’m going to throw up.

“Of course, you killed her for it. Or your Lieutenant Commander did, I should say. It was a good death for her, you have to understand. She chose not to be parted from her beast, and she resolved to die in battle—regardless of which side she fought for—when the alternative was far more wretched. Once my fingers had pushed themselves so firmly into her head that she’d perform tricks for my approval and service the other officers in the base I’m stationed at, she was no longer so prideful. But she was happy. She knew, somewhere deep within that repurposed and disciplined sack of flesh that now responded to ‘Hound’, that she had narrowly avoided a much worse fate. Hound was rewarded when she did good, and punished when she let me down. She was treated like a pet, yes, but I’m sure you can understand that there are worse things to be made into. I am a good owner, I take care of my property. I am sure that Hound felt loved.”

My stomach churns. I’m reaching for the cable at the back of my head with all the remaining strength in my arms as my body sweats like it’s in an oven. With both hands, I clasp the chunky rubber sleeve and yank the connector out of my neural port with little consideration for safety; there’s usually an ejection process that requires you to wait a few seconds to ensure it is not removed while interfacing with something delicate. I’m hardy, I tell myself, panting out in my damp, haggard state for just a moment before the fury I feel towards those terrible words fuels me like a thousand shots of adrenaline. Blinking away the blinding white, I administer the strongest stim I have and lunge forwards to seize Leon’s controls like I’m as rabid and off the leash as Cerre was on that dreadful morning we reunited with, and buried her.

When my vision finally comes back into focus, I’m horrified by the sight that greets me. Fate’s smile has never appeared so cruel. Daedaleon’s arms have been completely severed from the elbow joints down, by enemy chain swords I was not even able to hear, nor feel, ripping through my pride and joy. It’s what I see past that absence, across the shell-pounded soil at our feet, that truly gives me pause. It’s rare to see a human being in the flesh out in the field these days, as we’re fortunate enough to keep the fight well away from civvies and the rest of us are hidden inside several layers of reinforced steel plating—our true selves, if you’re to ask a mech junkie like myself.

Standing there, with her hair flowing in the wind like a white flag she’s offering to lend me, is the woman I had been talking to only moments ago. I’m certain of it. This is the monster who destroyed the woman I loved. I should be charging, but even the combat stim isn’t enough to save me from the despair at the sight of this. Her confidence is unlike anything I’ve ever known, even when glancing back through my own storied service record. Hers is the confidence of myth, something you’d only ever read about in legend. She stands there, in her tight black leathers—half-cape flapping over her right shoulder and military cap emblazoned with the Imperial Hawk—atop the armoured vehicle she must have been commandeering. Her right leg is raised, long black leather boot resting on the gun-howitzer mounted atop the vehicle and trained directly on my sorry self. She looks like death itself, her perfect platinum hair almost seeming to float like a will-o'-wisp. Her sunken, ghostlike face—its expression completely untranslatable to a warm-blooded human being—only adds to her ethereal quality. So, this is the phantom I’ve been taunted by ever since Cerre’s capture?

No part of her seems to belong in this world at all—and yet here she is, standing tall, bound by flesh my imagination tells me is a mere illusion. She’s much taller than this, in truth. Her presence is more intrusive. I’ve known her for all of ten minutes, maybe less, and her gaseous, wraithlike presence permeates and haunts in equal measure. She’s still as a living revenant, calm as a patient mother, and posed like a real hero.

I have to kill her—now—before the creeping fear reaches my heart and stops it dead.

“Stand down, Lieutenant.” Her voice pelts my ears like heavy snowfall—beautiful and dangerous. I had forgotten that I opened the line. “You’re in no state to fight. Put up no further resistance, and once that precious titan of yours has been restored to full glory—and beyond—I shall see to it that you pilot it as my new Hound.” Is she stupid? Like I’d ever surrender to these scumbags. My Leon isn’t going down without a fight. She’s not going down at all, goddammit!

“Resist,” she continues, sounding as unreasonably self-assured as ever, “and you will never fight again. This, I promise. Don’t be a bad girl, Miss Kaere. It would be a shame to seat one of our Imperial Austringers in that cockpit in your place.”

My blood begins to boil at the mere notion of one of the Empire’s stupid, nepotist pilots getting their hands on my baby. I’ve been accused of loving this damn machine more than I have my girlfriends, typically by the jealous soon-to-be exes themselves, and I’d sooner see it destroyed than in the hands of another. Nobody can treat her right like I can.

I grip the controls tighter, look out at the enemy poised to take everything from me—picking up where she left off—and make my decision.

“I’m choosing option two.”

Daedaleon’s chest opens up as the front armour bursts out on hinges. No machine worth its salt only has weaponry accessible via arms, it’s actually rather common for warmechs to lose one or both of their arms during a battle and still see the fight through to the end using other available means. Limbs, by their very nature, just have a way of sticking out and getting caught. I considered using Leon’s shoulder mounted artillery, instead of the missile pods in its chest, but felt that this would not only have the better element of surprise but form a smokescreen for my next move: powering the hardlight generator back up and—wait, what’s going on?

“Your weapons system detects me as a friendly because of the memento I took from your girlfriend. Go ahead and override, if you truly mean to waste your skills as an ace for the sake of your misguided, no, unearned pride. Just know that the second you do, I won’t hesitate to blow a hole right through your warmech and salvage what’s left of both it, and yourself, afterwards.”

“Tch.” It’s not that I want to call her bluff, because she has a way of speaking that convinces you every word she tells you is a fact, but I hardly have any other choice. I can’t flee like this, and I won’t roll over like a dog for her no matter how much she tries to get in my head. We’re trained to resist torture and, cyanide or no, I can still bite right through my fucking tongue if I’m all out of other options.

My eyes flick down to Daedaleon’s control panel and I try to remember how to unassign a friendly. It’s not exactly something you’re usually expected to need to do on the fly so it’s not as streamlined as it could be—probably should be—in this new frontier of war I can only describe as ‘playing dirty’.

I… fuck, it’s… I just need to enter this sequence, and then—

BANG!

. . .

Flash!

I take a deep breath and blink at the controls before me. All these buttons, there are just so many of them. It’s bewildering! No, it’s boring. I sigh out into the stuffy cockpit as the sun’s rays shine in through the open front and bathe my body in its kind warmth. I smile and sink back into the leather and close my eyes, feeling a strange sense of peace overtake me.

It’s the sort of feeling I usually only feel when I’m with Her.

“We’ve got what we needed in there, Lyzer, you can come on out now.” The voice comes from the buzzing camera drones circling overhead, which distracted me from the console when it flashed without warning. My fingers dig into the leather seat and I smile again, softly, at the sound of it creaking for me. A part of me doesn’t want to leave, but even through a poor quality speaker like that I know whose voice it is on the other end and my heart leaps at the fact that She’s finally here. I cannot disobey, I wouldn’t want to. Whatever peace I find in this cockpit is a pale imitation of what I’ll find outside of it.

“C-Coming!” My body shifts all too eagerly as I hoist myself up onto my black chrome prosthetics and pull open the hatch into the sunny morning. My skin immediately goes all bumpy as I descend the ladder and scan surrounding area for Handler.

It’s sunny, but it isn’t too warm outside. That’s winter for you, I suppose. My travelling gaze sails right past the stoic Austringer pilot who has me in her sights and instead seeks out my only source of guidance and approval in this ungentle world. When She’s here, I can face anything, even the cold. When Handler’s around, I almost feel invincible.

Finally, my eyes fall upon Her. She’s wearing Her long winter coat and I want to bury myself in it like a bear entering hibernation. I’m not a bear, though. I remind myself of this, while curling fingers into the chunky ring of imperial black leather circling my neck. I’m…

“Apologies for my late arrival, Captain Janus. But I see that you have been proceeding with the shoot well enough in my absence. That’s good. She hasn’t given you any trouble, I hope?” Handler isn’t looking my way at all, but that’s okay. Her gaze can be frightening, to be honest, but getting to look upon Her like this gives me pleasure I could not hope to adequately describe with my deteriorating vocabulary. Her voice is a balm against my soul, while the sun does its best to play salve to my body. I’m showing off my bruises like medals today, according to Handler, whose idea it was for me to wear this jet black string bikini, emblazoned with the golden hawk. She called my appearance for today’s photoshoot a ‘two-pronged attack’ as She explained, slow enough for me to follow, what we would be doing.

I’m not just staring now, I’m ogling. The sight of Her is simply overwhelming me. Overstimulating me. Her gorgeous white hair, Her gaunt elegance, has me completely mesmerised—like a child reunited with her mother. When She glances to her side—towards me—and Her lip curls upwards at the corner almost imperceptibly, I feel myself creating a damp patch against the front of my straining bikini bottoms. Right where the fucking Hawk is.

“I ah… must confess that I also just arrived. Your menials have started early, and I can’t help but wonder if you planned that. Worried I wouldn’t let that resitance bitch inside my Daedaleon-Pteryx and risk some sort of murderous relapse? Maybe you’re right.” The Imperial Ace spits on the ground, by their fancy leather boots, which I notice—with a daringly prideful smirk—are not as well polished as Handler’s.

“We’re both here now, Captain. Let’s proceed with the exterior shots before Lyzer gets tired.” Handler dismisses the pilot with Her usual cold grace, turning to check on our photographer who stands several yards away, far back enough to fit the entirety of the Jet Hawk’s wingspan into frame. The already huge warmech has been refitted with giant black wings that have transformed it into something truly monstrous in its overbearing majesty. I asked Handler about it and She explained, in Her beautiful—if bored—voice, that the black hawk represents the shadow cast by the Emperor’s own golden one, or something. And that it’s a symbol of war that exists to keep the shining image of the Imperial Hawk at home in the capital ‘pure’ and ‘untainted’. Or something. Looking down at my marred body, purple blotches blooming across my skin, cigar burns that never seem to properly heal, and the black marker that tells the world what I am, I cannot help but feel that a tainted thing like me does not belong in a place so perfect and unblemished as this. Maybe that’s the point, though.

I turn back towards the photographer and tilt my head. They’re wearing a huge camera around their neck and gripping it with bandaged fingers. I cannot tell if they’re looking at me, Handler, or elsewhere, on account of the large black dog-shaped hood that covers their entire head.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, are you sure this is the best course of action? I’m not exactly sure when someone in… your unique field… got put in charge of delicate matters like these to begin with.” The pilot speaks their mind, like anything they have to say matters in the slightest when pitted against Her resolute will. Moron. “I’m just saying, I know this thing has proven useful so far at riling up the troops in its twisted little mascot showings, but we’re planning on leaking this one to the other side, yes? To show them we have their greatest weapon and that it’s more terrifying than ever. Why not let me be the face of the campaign?” The Austringer Pilot pleads with Handler like a pathetic bitch, and it almost makes me feel threatened.

“Lyzer, come here.” Handler orders. My entire body seizes up with nervous excitement at the command, which I obey without a second thought. Or a first. Skipping across the air strip’s concrete floor on my prosthetic legs, I approach Her carefully, feeling butterflies in my stomach like I’m no older than sixteen and I’ve just been noticed by my crush. “What was it you called her, a mascot?” Handler grins, which is a rarity I make sure to savour the sight of. “I suppose that’s a fitting descriptor as any. Like you say, she’s useful for morale and the recruitment campaign we just wrapped up has seen the most enlistments in The Empire’s history since ending conscription.” Handler pulls me close, into Her possessive hold, and I lean back into Her heavenly warmth while continuing to shiver in the cold. She told me I won’t die from it, but that I might get sick and have to spend a few days down in the kennels at worst. She’s so kind. Her arm snakes around my exposed belly and Her gloved fingers trace the words written there in thick black marker pen.

“If I may, sir? I think it’s obscene. I know it must sound strange coming from myself, of all people, but… she was the best of the resistance, at least symbolically. A hero, if you ask them, and an angel of slaughter if you pay attention to gossip in the capital. Now she’s plastered over the city on recruitment posters. Our posters. At least two officers that I know of have used that material for their uh… ungentlemanly activities. It incenses me.” This bitch is talking a whole lot, huh? I do my dog-best not to smile as I look over at her, taking in the sight of that Captain’s uniform she climbed her way up into after only a year of life. From the moment they pulled her out of the vat, she’s been a soldier. And for all that time, I’ve been… this. It’s okay though, really, I… like it.

“I do hope you voice these concerns out of a love for The Empire, Janus, and not simply jealousy. I understand, child. You wish to be a hero, perhaps it’s coded into your DNA. You will be one very soon, but remember that you act as a shadow. Cull your need to be seen, to step into the light, until we’ve won the war. My Lyzer here, your donor, is simply better for optics currently. You shouldn’t envy a mutt like her, though, it’s dangerous to treat them too much like people.” Handler’s cold digits slide up across my body until one invades my mouth, pulling it open slightly as I open up to accommodate without much thought.

“You mean your ‘dogs’?” The Imperial Pilot wearing my face gives us both a look of disgust I want to shield Handler from like the good meat I am. “I may be a result of one of your programs too, but let me make it clear I have full citizenship, and—unlike yourself—a real military rank. I am not, and have never been, a member of the resistance, and I’m nothing like these poor girls you use the war fund to turn into… animals. So vicious they need to be muzzled. It’s disgusting.”

Handler’s fingers slide under my chin to hold my face up as her thumb continues to trace over my teeth idly. “Do you think I make my Hounds wear those out of fear for your safety, Captain? How many times must I explain myself, I wonder. Had they the will to take their muzzles off, they could. My dogs are a unique breed, you see—they have opposable thumbs.” It’s as close as a stoic, godlike woman such as Handler will ever get to telling a joke. I nibble Her thumb with a quiet moan, trying my best to look at the Pilot, and not the mech behind her. My brain hurts when I look at that mech, and my heart aches.

“See? This one won’t bite at all, though she’s not a Hound. Much more harmless, ill suited for war. But she makes for a very good pawn for public appearances and propaganda tactics, don’t you, Lyzer?”

My head goes light and fuzzy, and I nod against Her hand emphatically. Yeah, that’s all I am. “Yesh Sirrr…” I slur, my tongue obstructed by the leather digit still invading my bitch mouth. “Aahhm good porn!”

Captain Janus looks at me like I just called her mother a whore, which, under our unique circumstances, would be a rather funny declaration to make. “We proceed with the broken whelp that used to pilot my Leon, then. Just so long as she knows she’ll never feel its thrum again, nor the simple pleasure of routing an enemy. This is my girl now, and little Lyzer Kaere’s going to have to live with the death toll I rack up in its saddle. Her friends, her family… I expect her to thank me for the trouble of dispatching them when I return from my missions, soap bucket in hand to keep my Daedaleon nice and clean.” The worked up Pilot pauses, as though considering stopping there, before following her words with an indulgent addendum that makes me shamefully hard. “Or, maybe I’ll make this hollow caricature of the resistance’s greatest hero lick her comrade’s blood right off my Leon’s foot. Maybe that’s the only time I let her touch her old flame at all.”

“I’m glad we can speak more frankly now, Captain. Your performative insistence on being above this was beginning to wear thin.” Handler cocks Her head and removes Her thumb from the corner of my mouth. The pilot across from us balks at the cutting assessment, realising she had spoken out of turn. I’m told I have that effect on people—that I bring out the worst in them with my tempting body and what it represents. They cored me out and turned me into a black hole, and now even my superior clone is lost in orbit.

“Whatever. How do you know it won’t come back to its senses and start killing? How harmless is she really? I’ve read all the reports, seen all the films. Before you blew a hole in her and Leon, put down the resistance’s greatest hero like… well, a dog, she’d single-handedly ended more lives than most platoons.” The pilot approaches, her boots clacking against the cold, hard ground. I grow meeker as she draws nearer, despite my prior smugness. She’s like me, but different. Pristine. This woman gets to wear the Imperial Officer’s uniform, and talk to Handler like a person would, and want for herself and… and pilot Leon.

Why does that last one hurt the most, I wonder?

“Tell me, Captain, have you ever heard the term ‘cognitive warfare’?” Handler is unmoved by the Austringer’s approach, giving my clone the same unflinching look She does me, despite our vast difference in standing.

“I know about your program, ‘Handler’. I’m just relaying my concerns over its efficacy, long term. If this pitiful thing remembers itself one day, there’ll be hell to pay. Might want to at least reconsider the standard bio-locks on our mechs, at least for Daedaleon.” The pilot reaches for my face and holds my jaw, roughly. The touch is so much less than Handler’s, but I lean into it nonetheless. I can’t help myself, it’s simply my nature. After the deprivation, everything felt good… and I mean everything.

“You’re not privy to the full scope of my operation, but let me put you at ease. You’re misguided in thinking that a full relapse like that is even possible, my Lyzer here, your war’s mascot, is not the same woman that fought against us on the other side. Not really, not anymore. When I speak of brain warfare I mean it quite literally, you see. In all wars there are heavy casualties, and in Lyzer’s case these losses are no less irreversible than those we see on a daily basis out there. We began with physical trauma, the loss of two of her limbs from the night I saved her. I was there, by her side, while she was in recovery. Lyzer remembers that much.” I stare down at my black chrome prosthetics and blush, remembering the way she never stopped coming to visit me in the ward even when I would curse her name until my lungs could shriek no more and my throat burned like my phantom legs. “Of course, my other purpose in being there was to begin the conversion process. ‘Houndification’, as rumour would suggest you officers have taken to calling it behind closed doors, requires a certain modicum of acceptance. Self defeat. It’s a delicate process, in which the ego is nurtured, cultivated, into a new vessel of thought and dependence. I carefully make a hole inside of their damaged hearts, and then I benevolently fill it back up. A Hound is something that can only survive with its Handler there to keep it whole. They truly are dogs, and if you treat them properly they can be brilliant creatures.”

“Is… this going somewhere, sir?”

“My Hounds are fragile, and that cannot be helped. In order to preserve their piloting skills and fighting spirit, their loyalty must be constantly fought for, their leashes kept short and held in a tight grip. Slip, and no muzzle will stop them from closing their jaws around their owner’s throat. It’s necessary that they have a full range of emotions, and that their hatred is permitted just as much as their adoration and loyalty. It’s necessary for them to be dangerous, and so I handle them with caution and… respect.”

The pilot scoffs. It makes me want to spit in her dumb fucking face. She may be objectively better than me in every single way, but if she’s going to insult Handler and turn a blind eye to the boundless wisdom of Her words, she should be shot alongside the deserters.

“Respect, sir? Really?”

“The appropriate amount, yes. Do you respect your senior officers to the same degree that you would a dog? I’d surely hope not, but that doesn’t mean you should disrespect the creature—especially so if that course of action is all but sure to get you bitten. Or are you simply not an animal lover, Captain?” Once again, my owner’s smugness touches against Her lips and curls them dangerously. I’m just so happy to be in Her presence, even if I’m shivering in the cold in this humiliating outfit; shame no longer reaches me, as I’m sure She is about to explain to this uneducated swine.

“Isn’t all of this just proving my point? You’re making it sound like one wrong move, an accidental disruption of that weird fucking ego-cage you have them locked up in, and they’ll claw out your throat. Sir, at least the other ones get to… roleplay as their old selves. Sick as it is, if you’ll allow me to be so candid, it almost feels like a kindness compared to this.” Is that pity my mirror offers me? I hold back laughter, feeling an uncomfortable stiffness at the mere notion that a worthless loser bitch like me deserves such consideration. It’s a smoulderingly hot fantasy to be sure, but it also leaves a bad taste in my mouth. If… if I could be anything better than this, then what the hell have I been doing here all this time? I like being a dumb mascot for the enemy, even if I know somewhere deep and ugly that it makes me a traitor in the eyes of many, because of one simple truth that this stupid vat-grown imp doesn’t seem to get. Please tell her, Handler. Please help her understand what I truly am. Not hero, nor Hound.

“All I have mentioned applies to my Hound pilots, yes, but not to Lyzer here. She is not a Hound.” Her hand falls atop my mess of soft bleached-blonde hair, tied on either side into short pigtails that make it look like I have doggie ears. Janus’ hair is still my natural chestnut brown colour, like in all my old resistance posters before Her. “And I most assuredly do not respect her.” Handler’s black digits creak into my hair as they tighten until the pain hits me like a sedative. I’m placated by the harshness of Her touch, melting into my double’s hand while I’m held tightly by my sadistic master. This is fucking heaven; the Austringer Pilot will understand the truth of me soon, just as I was forced to. Peer into the hole inside your heart and you may be surprised to discover just how empty you always were. The lies people feed us growing up can make us think that we’re more than our base desires, but the wool has been removed from my eyes, and my eyes have been plucked fresh out of my skull to boot. I am gleefully blind; euphorically deaf. I am nothing but Her bitch, and the Empire’s whore.

“The gentle, careful process of disassembly, modification and reassembly I have just described to you was not applied to Lyzer. If we’re to go ahead and use horology as our analogy here, likening their minds, egos, to clockwork… then while I am a very disciplined watchmaker with my Hounds, Lyzer Kaere’s transition to what you now hold in your hand was achieved by prying open the caseback and filling the timepiece with resin.” She’s saying that I don’t tick right, I think. I… do struggle with keeping track of time these days, while remembering what day of the week it is has become near impossible to stay on top of. “The moment she was discharged with her new limbs, we began the very simple, arguably barbaric process of breaking her mind. At least at first, I’m not content with something purely vegetative. After the psychedelics, and the deprivation, and the forcefully induced comas successfully erased the former hero’s ability to access her rebellious spirit, I took that blank slate and cut away the pieces I didn’t need through long talks—re-education assisted by hypnosis—and light shock therapy. Nothing so terrible. It took less than a week for that final stage to see completion. She was, is, so very grateful for all of my hard work. Aren’t you, Miss Kaere?”

My mind is swimming with memory, and I’m throbbing so hard from reliving it that my neutered cock strains my bikini bottoms until they push out slightly. I’m salivating heavily as She asks me if I’m grateful. Of course I am, but I’m also in fucking heat.

“Yes Sir! I-I… ahhh… ahahhhhh…” I’m fully losing my composure now, drooling all over the Captain’s gloved hand until she notices and yanks it away with a scowl.

“Ugh, you’re so fucking…” The pilot’s hatred of me is such a turn on, I can’t explain it. The same way that I start leaking when Handler talks about how She doesn’t respect me. It’s so comforting, to be the trash I am. Nowhere left to fall.

“Would you like to hit her? I find that a clean backhanded strike will typically force her back into a semi-lucid state, even if she’s liable to beg for more. Give a dog a treat and it’ll learn to keep coming back to you, I suppose. Go ahead, though, if you must.” Handler yanks my hair back to lift my head back up for my clone’s—my better’s—hitting pleasure.

“That’s deranged. Can’t we just proceed with the shoot? It’s getting cold…”

“Come now, Captain. I know you want to hurt her. I can see the same fire in your eyes my Officers display when they’re taking turns on her. It always starts out gentle, civil. One at a time. And by the end of it they’re just another pack of wild dogs, thinking the absence of a collar and a muzzle keeps them safe from my judgement. The same goes for you. But don’t let that stop you. I, unlike so many others, keep my urges well in check.” She keeps me held there, goading the Imperial Pilot into striking me so that She can prove some point I barely even understand. I don’t care why, I just need to feel something. My eyes search those of the woman in front of me, whose own wide eyes already make me flush—soften me up for her—and I plead, wordlessly, for her to lose to whatever compulsion drives her fist.

“I… for the love of god. The glory of The Emperor. I… this… this is the face of our recruitment drive? How depraved, and cheap, and insulting and…”

“That’s right, Captain. Let the indignation stir. These feelings are all valid. Please do not shy away from how my bitch grinds your gears. You’re ticking over the edge, and she’s ruined goods. Nobody will care if you lay a hand on her, not even I—not even should you black her eye or bust her lip. You deserve the catharsis, don’t you? This is your big day, the grand reveal of the great Daedaleon-Pteryx, the war-hawk that will crush the resistance, and she’s stealing the show somehow, despite what she is. A worthless wretch of a failed hero, who knows only masochistic delight so wanton no other vice in human history could compare. A giddy punching bag, and a semen depository for your peers, and a public mascot that bastardises the very decency of our nation your biased, twelve-month-old, expedited mental development tells you is oh so very real. A—”

“Grahh!” SMACK!

For just a brief flash, the world turns white. An intense heat throbs against my cheek and I drool a line of bubbly red spit onto the ground with an airy little giggle that makes the woman raise her arm for a second strike. The pain doesn’t register at all anymore, it just feels good. Everything that should hurt me instead brings me a naughty pleasure that the soldiers thrust upon me tend to find intoxicating. They call me a ‘pain slut’, but even that feels like stolen valour at this point, my nerves really are that fucked.

“Do you see now? Miss Kaere isn’t worth your respect, nor your concern. Her personality is irrevocably warped. She’s ruled by masochism. So deep is her penchant for pain, a powerful wound impressed upon her broken heart, that I’ve assessed even partial recovery efforts to be utterly fruitless endeavours. It’s… well, like I said before, I do not enjoy my property to be vegetative, boring. Lyzer’s old personality is twisted beyond repair by my process, yes, but her memories are still intact. Ego totems, like your Daedaleon, still prove to be effective means of emotional regulation and control. Just, in the exact opposite way to how I use them with my Hounds.”

Her Daedaleon. I bite my lip and sigh out heavy, drooling some more. That’s right… my Leon… Lyzer Kaere’s pride and joy… it’s hers now. All hers, this Austringer parading around with my DNA. That’s… it hurts. At least, like the smack, it should.

“This, Captain, is what makes our Lyzer here the perfect mascot for the war effort. The best bitch for the job, so to speak. A hero for the people, who derives intense sexual gratification from her own pain and humiliation. Hurting her with your fists will get her going just as much as wiping out her people. Those resistance fighters, and the civilians they shelter, who look up to her as their shining beacon of hope. The despair in their final moments would be that much worse were they to learn that news of their deaths could well end up as little more than jerk off material for their beloved hero.”

“She’s sick. I-I mean, you did it to her, but she’s still…” My clone glares at me with a hatred so potent I begin to dribble precum down my thigh without an ounce of shame. Well, the sensation is there, somewhere, but it’s redirected to my erogenous zones just as much as the sting against my reddening face.

“P-Pleash…” I mumble, barely coherent. “Hit me agaaain…”

SMACK!

“Like any good mascot, she sparks inspiration in the hearts of the people. It may be unconventional, but I think you’re starting to get it. You were blinded by pride, weren’t you? Hating that this is what you come from. That every Imperial Officer and enlisted soldier you ever fight alongside would have to fight to stay their hand were they to look upon your face. My advice, Captain? Embrace the mask. Enjoy the private quarters. It’s why I had you assigned to the Austringers to begin with and boosted your progression through the officer’s ranks. You can thank me, should you like. Though… I’d caution you to hold off until we’re through here. Sometimes my advice is no better than the fantasies I feed my dogs when they’re troubled. Comforting lies and could-have-beens. To be honest, I think your public debut may be coming sooner than you think.”

My legs are trembling violently as I do my best to stay standing after a third strike comes out of nowhere in place of an expected retort. This time, her gloved fist sinks into my gut and has me hunching over, almost vomiting. It was hard enough to leave another bruise, I note, wanting to reach for my cock and start stroking but knowing that I’d get in trouble. Handler doesn’t like it when I touch myself without permission, I was shocked and—I’ll confess—suspicious, when I was relieved of my cage by the menials who delivered my outfit and roughly dressed me this morning.

“I’ve had enough of this shit. Are we going to start the fucking photoshoot now, or what?” The pilot takes a step back, as though they need the distance to stop themselves from losing to my toxic allure and beating me some more. What a pity, but… when I’m with Handler, I can endure the lack of physical violence being thrown my way. Handler is wonderful. She’s the woman who ruined my life forever. Because of Her, I lost everything; my legs, my sanity, my pride, my status, my mech, my Cerre… She took them, each and every one, and when I’m in Her presence I’m unable to forget this fact. It’s the greatest thrill a bitch like me could ever know. It’s a pain that wraps me firm around Her finger, begging for more. Panting with pleasure for another hit. What can She take from me next? My likeness has been violated by this double, that’s something I can work with… distil the shame and discomfort until it’s strong enough to get drunk off.

Speaking of potency, I don’t think I’ve ever heard such dripping amusement from Handler’s tongue before Her next words spill out like a sneering syrup.

“My, Captain, were you not taught to treat your elders with respect, rank notwithstanding? I suppose for a young babe such as yourself, not a single birthday party to look back on, that would be just about everyone you meet. Considering your extreme youth, and my Lyzer’s dark charm, I won’t judge you too harshly for your lack of basic observation.” The woman’s leather hands slide into the pockets of that thick winter coat and She retrieves both her cigar and the means to light it, doing so with no haste in Her motion. She’s enjoying herself, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that before—not even while She beat me or had me black Her boots. Holding the cigar to Her mouth, that beautiful, wicked mouth, Handler takes a long puff before speaking the words that change the context of this entire afternoon for good.

“What makes you think we haven’t been rolling this entire time?”

My clone grinds her teeth and stares out at the hovering drones she had been ignoring until this very moment, then at the menials repositioning for their shots. It’s a strange sort of scene—grey skies overhead where the sun had been shining less than a half hour ago, and a pack of dingy mutts hounding us like a film crew.

“I… you set me up. You were… toying with me, this entire time.” The pilot does not stop grinding her teeth to speak, but instead talks through them. It is a grating noise.

“I did not force your hand, but I think the two of you pair nicely together—and what a striking message it sends. You mentioned my plans to leak today’s shoot to the resistance and that’s exactly what I mean to do. A two-pronged attack: telling them that we have not only reduced their symbol of hope into a drooling mockery of everything she once was, but that we have replaced her with a clone that has all of her piloting skill and none of her stubbornness, nor her hatred for The Empire. A half truth in this current moment, one could say. I was willing to proceed with just one of you, but I am glad to have you both. You’re one whole, you see, like the Emperor’s Golden Hawk and the black shadow of war it casts.”

The other me balks at these words, stepping back and clutching the front of her uniform tightly. Handler, unbothered, takes another puff of her cigar.

“This is everything you wanted and more. Enjoy it, Captain. Just watch your back out there, even in a state-of-the-art titan like that. Remember, you’re one of the freaks now. Just as much as she is.” Handler’s so hot when She’s being cruel. I love Her so much, nobody else could ever be this awful and enjoy it as much as She clearly does. I love Her!

“You’re the mascot bitch now, Captain Janus. Smile for the camera and give us some better shots, alright? We’ve already got enough to proceed with but I’ll confess they’re not ideal, especially the ones with myself in frame. I prefer keeping hidden, albeit in plain sight. Like the sun that casts the light over the hawk. Too blinding to direct your gaze to, but you know I’m there, because the proof is everywhere. My radiance permits your meagre existence.” She puffs again, letting out a gravelly, low chuckle from Her throat I’ll never forget for the rest of my life—for I know I may never hear it again. “Perhaps that’s too lofty a metaphor.”

The Imperial Austringer, a warmech pilot who has achieved her ace status within less than ten months of active service—and twelve months of life—removes her cap and pulls her gloves up tight. Her service record is proof that, through cloning not only my body, but copying the data from my mind and combining the two, an Imperial hero could be made. I could be replaced, and reoriented, just like that. Well, I hear it was inordinately expensive, and heavily contested by several houses, but the results really do speak for themselves. Perhaps this is why the woman—who has only ever known praise and success for her entire short lived existence—is so taken aback at my owner’s mocking words and petty name calling. Her eyes are those of a trained killer’s, rather than a tamed one, and the words ‘mascot bitch’ tumble through her head like tin cans clanging together and rousing the bull inside.

She sees only red, while a dog like me can only see in hues of yellow and blue. Together, we form a full spectrum of colour. Handler was right about us completing each other!

“Might as well let it out now, it could be cathartic. I’ll let you do anything that doesn’t permanently damage her. Just try to get the Daedaleon-Pteryx in frame, will you?” Handler watches the furious Austringer Pilot approach without a single worry that the imp would dare to lay a hand on Her directly. She sees it too, my mirror—that Handler is untouchable. Her aura is palpable, and we’re all at its mercy. The entire world should worship Her, and fear Her, just like any god worth its divinity.

“You’ll be hearing from high command.” The pilot grunts with false bravado, reaching out to grab me by the collar and swinging me around with a strength in her muscles I lost a long time ago. I knew it. I’m the substitute, she can treat me how she likes, get this bottled up rage out of her system for being played like a bitch, and maybe the shame won’t eat her up completely. She’s a hero, after all.

Handler waves her cigar dismissively, free hand resting in Her long coat pocket. “Yes, I’m sure I will. Fortunately, they always tend to like what I have to say. I can’t imagine they treat a clone quite so favourably. Your status means nothing, girl. You’re a tool, a weapon, while I’m the one who makes their weapons. Think on that while you’re beating my dog.”

The drones hover down low to capture the Captain’s journey to the foot of her mech, a hulking black warhawk with two silver spiralled horns sprouting from its angular head and its chest armament switched from missile pods to a gravity bomb payload to take advantage of its new flight capabilities. With more advanced manoeuvrability than any traditional aircraft, the Daedaleon-Pteryx is a new kind of horror. Equipped with decoys and thrusters and saddled with a pilot with all the skills of the resistance’s top ace, it is designed to weave through anti-air defences and obliterate a resistance stronghold, or platoon, in a single swoop. I’m in awe of it, the way they’ve transformed my girl into a demon.

I am thrust upon its giant toe, the cold metal cooling my already freezing back but the contact soothing me nonetheless. The Captain’s fingers are still tightly curled into my collar, hoisting me up and turning to face the camera-menial just in time for the flash to go off and capture this sorry scene.

The photo would show an Imperial Officer standing over the former resistance hero, Lyzer Kaere, who lay thrust upon her old warmech. The mindbroken dog, who noticed the camera much sooner, is acting the mascot she was trained—roughly—into becoming for her master’s benefit. She is giving the same pose she was instructed to give for those recruitment posters, with her hands raised in front of her, drooping down like puppy paws. Her string bikini set in Imperial colours has loosened slightly, showing some of her light brown areola on the left side as her cock spills free of the bottoms, while thick black marker across her tummy and thighs reads all manner of degrading words penned by the menials earlier this morning. She’s the lowest of the low, Lyzer Kaere, and so it’s not just enlisted soldiers and commissioned officers that get full access to her, but even the mongrel bondservants that every imp in Handler’s vicinity fears becoming should they displease Her. In this particular photograph, the words that will most clearly be made out read: Free Use Resistance Hero, Imperial Cocksleeve, and Pain Junkie. The latter includes—in parentheses—the words ‘Hit Me!’ with a fittingly placed, freshly developing bruise just below them.

“We’re going to have to edit those out,” Handler remarks humourlessly, “but they’ll do wonders for morale in the military and… we’ll leak the uncensored versions, why not?” She speaks over Her shoulder to the ‘person’ in charge of relaying this information to somebody more competent down the line.

“God, you’re disgusting.” Captain Janus turns away from the camera flash and gives me her full attention once again, pressing the toe of her steel-capped boot against my crotch and pushing down on my writhing erection until it can no longer be seen. I’m pressed against Leon, mewling like a slut as the military combat boot flattens my cock against my stomach.

When I spray myself for the first time in months, my eyes near rolling right into the back of the sockets as I gasp apologetically into the air, glancing Handler nervously, the Captain scoffs hatefully, lifts her leg back up, and kicks me in the face hard enough to make me see stars.

I’m sprawled across the warhawk’s talon, a slick glaze of my own pathetic seed coating my front—across the marker pen written directly above my cock that reads ‘No Touching’—and another long string of sticky red spit hanging down from my busted lip. It’s dripping all over Leon now too, I’m leaking everywhere… God, I’m so dizzy. This is exhilarating. I’m the luckiest bitch in the whole entire world!

“Look up, cunt. Gaze upon my weapon.” The Captain seems to have lost herself entirely, which I’m very grateful for. I let out an exhausted little giggle as I do as I’m told all too readily, flattening my back against Leon’s foot and staring up across its towering form. It really is the most magnificent machine ever created, at least I think so, even with a fresh imp paint job and gaudy modifications. Its coiling silver horns are dazzling, truly giving it the appearance of a mythical creature rather than just a warmech designed for combat. It’s not simply a killing machine, but an angel of slaughter. And… I’ll never pilot her again.

“I’ll treat her just right, even better than you did. I’ll make her fucking purr. Now clean your mess off my girl. Use your tongue, okay? We’ll get some nice shots of that.” Grabbing me by the back of my collar, like picking up a runt by the scruff of its neck, Captain Janus pulls me down onto the ground. I collapse onto my knees hard enough to make my cock twitch again, because it hurts so fucking good.

Two camera drones swoop in close as I arch my back in this kneeling position, my front dripping with my own dirty seminal fluid. I’m completely infertile after they took my balls, and it was meant to lower my sex drive too, but a masochistic slut like me, in an Empire this hurtful, has my cumshots at an all time high. My clone likes to act ten foot tall in my presence, pressing the outsole of her boot—still slick with semen—against the back of my head to push me towards my clean-up job. That’s right, she’s my better and she plays the part well… but even so, we’re not so different. We’re both mascot bitches in Handler’s scheme, and where they had me neutered, they spayed my mirror within her first month of life. Wouldn’t want any more Kaere’s running about in this world, two’s enough.

As my own cum begins to stick to my hair from that pressing boot, I start dragging my tongue across Daedaleon’s cold steel to cleanse it of my filthy lust. God, I took such pride in standing by this thing, once upon a time, posing much more triumphantly in our own resistance campaign. Now, I’m fixed. I lap up my semen like a good dog and swallow every filthy drop. I don’t like the taste, to be honest, but I’m more than used to it after having my mouth raped by my superiors almost every day for a year now. I’m told by the sneering officers, soldiers, and even other broken mutts like myself, that my breath stinks of cock 24/7 now. I’m just a receptacle, a dumpster—a toilet, if needed! I cry sometimes, when they’re using me, because it makes them go harder.

I break into a hum as I clean the Captain’s mech for her. It’s the Imperial anthem; they played it in my sleep during those long, artificial comas. It’s always playing, in the back of my head, somewhere deep and troubling. I don’t know what true silence is anymore.

“You’re enjoying this?” The woman asks me scornfully. She must be unsettled by my lilting hum, the way I wag my hips like I’ve got a tail attached, and the small moans I really do try my best to restrain every time she presses down harder.

“Yes ma’am!” I reply eagerly, laying it on just a little thicker than usual to see if it drives her even more insane. It does. With my head tilted back to gaze up at her, each of our faces appearing upside-down to the other, I watch her eye twitch and blush wildly when her spit descends upon my face like buckshot. “Th-Thank you, ma’am.” I reply, goading her innocently while pinching my erection between my thighs.

Her backhand sets me straight, so forceful that it drops me onto my side. By the time I’ve scrambled back up onto my reddened knees, she has already removed her belt. For a moment, I get excited, thinking she’s about to give me some well deserved lashings across my back… or even my chest… but instead, she drops it against the ground with a thud of steel and black leather. I’m staring, silent and obedient as a show dog, at the hero I once was. She removes her gloves next, before proceeding to unbutton her fitted black trousers without saying a word. What have I done to her? I’m so excited.

Pushing her trousers down her thighs, completely indifferent to the presence of cameras now—if she even still remembers where she is—Captain Janus grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me into the shadow cast by Deaedaleon-Pteryx’s colossal left leg, slamming me against the immovable metal giant and pinning me against it unceremoniously with her cloth-covered crotch. Oh god, she’s soaked. I inhale deeply and my eyes flutter dramatically. Clean air is no longer available to me; it was never my right. All I can do is breathe in deep the air filtered by my better’s lust, letting my shoulders sag and my hips rut into the cold day.

“You said I could do whatever I like? Show whoever you like, show the world… this broken toy… this fucking… meat you turned their hero into, is good for nothing but eating my cunt.” She’s acting just as erratically as I am now. I wonder why. Did Handler do something, or was it all me? Either way, I can’t say I dislike the words she’s saying. If she wants me to be a slave to cunt, I’ll swear in right now with swirling tongue and eager strokes. I’ll eat her out until my jaw aches too badly to move, and then I’ll let her continue to fuck my face until I’ve passed out… and then she could keep going even longer, if she wanted! Some of them take me in my sleep, or when I’m blacked out on the drugs they sometimes stick me with. I wake up with fresh aches and stains and rub my hand against my cage with needy little whines at how turned on I am by the violation. Janus is right, I really am just meat. I need her to enjoy me, no matter how much it hurts.

The woman yanks her underwear down and smothers me with the one part of her body that does not mirror my own in the slightest. The force at which her hips gyrate teaches me new things I must remember to thank her for when I’m once again able to speak—to breathe. I learn that being sexually assaulted by your genetic double is a privilege that so few will ever get to experience, and that I must learn proper ceremony for prayer so that I may thank whatever god the imps believe in—or maybe just Her—for choosing me to be among them. I may even be the only one. Why don’t identical twins just rape each other for fun? I… oh… right. I’m reminded that normal, upstanding folks don’t think in the same perverse, immoral, revolting ways that I do. My mind is a black basin of corruptive vice and unapologetic sin. I am baptised in bodily fluids and toilet water and I serve my ego up like sirloin to watch my owner cut into bite-sized pieces and enjoy and maybe—just maybe, if I’m lucky—She’ll throw me some scraps, too.

So I eat her cunt. I don’t even question where she got it from, because I lose the thought in all that heady flavour. This is the taste of Daedaleon’s pilot. I know it shouldn’t be any better than my own nasty seed, but it tastes divine. I gulp it down like a gourmet, becoming quieter, more devoted, as the singular task shrinks my mind down to the size of a pin head. The only sounds I make are the horribly crass slurping noises created by my dutiful tongue and the wet smacking of lips on lips. Occasionally the Captain will utter an expletive and bring her hips down on my face hard enough to slam my sticky head into the steel behind it, but we’re otherwise focused on nothing but pleasure. Her pleasure. It’s important to me as my own pain, the pleasure of my tormentors. It’s just as good kindling for my masochism as anything directly inflicted upon me.

“Hnnngh… a-ahhh… good. That’s good. You know your place. I…” Having just finished onto my face, the Captain returns to her senses some and turns to face Handler. “Is… any of that salvageable?” She asks, causing the cigar toting spectre to give Her usual fake smile, which looks a little less hollow than usual. I can tell She’s satisfied.

“You can have your hero moment now and finish up with some solo shots. You’ll find the kennel staff are not the most talkative and yet, rather efficient workers. Come along now, Lyzer, we’re done here.”

I perk my head up and smile through the exhaustion, picking myself up from the ground and taking a few steps towards Her before turning back one final time when the Captain calls out.

“Wait.” She demands. I look upon the woman still pulling her trousers back up, standing in the shadow of a great black hawk. “Come here.” Her eyes are trained on my own. Smouldering are they. I’m intimidated once again, especially as I watch her unclasp the gun holster slung over her uniform.

When I turn to search for answers in Handler’s face, She simply nods—calm as ever. Bolstered by this, I skip back over to my double and stop right in front of her, realising only now that we stand together like this that she’s almost a full foot taller than me.

Saying nothing, the woman unholsters her service pistol and pushes the end of the barrel against my cheek. “You should be put down, Lyzer Kaere… but, I’ll let you continue to live in my shadow. Think of me and her,” the Captain gestures up to the warmech above us, “when you curl up in bed tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for letting me live in your shadow.” I’m all smiles, even if a part of me is dying to point out that only Handler gets to decide my fate.

“Hm, whatever.” The gun barrel pushes down against my lower lip until my jaw drops for it, then slides over my dirty tongue to feed me the fruits of her orgasm. I make the most pornographic show of sucking the barrel clean as I possibly can, because I know it’s what she wants. I can tell it makes her want to fuck me again, like all the other Imperial addicts. Everyone loves their mascot. “I’m convinced that you’re perfectly safe, so…” She turns the pistol sideways and slots it into my mouth—like how a dog should carry something. “This needs a field strip and a deep clean. I expect it back in my hand by morning, understood?”

“Yeth, mahm.” I’m slobbering, but she seems pleased.

“Clench, then. I don’t want you dropping it and damaging one of the springs.” I do as I’m told happily, thankful to have become her bitch too. I’m so glad she accepts me.

“Good girl, run along now. I’ve, ah… got a date with the missus.” She smirks, seeming to have finally caught her stride once again. Nothing like a good orgasm to clear your head, perhaps that’s why I’m not usually permitted them—so that I’m kept nice and foggy.

I clench nice and good and I return to Handler’s side with the gun stowed away in my mouth, trying not to think too much about the last thing the Captain said to me. That’s… her Leon now. It’s okay. I like that I’m being robbed of my true calling in life in favour of service submission for the enemy. I mean it! Being a traitor makes me hard. There’s… nothing else to say on the matter.

“You look troubled, Lyzer.” Handler holds Her cigar low enough to tell me She’s finished with it, and so I shake my head with a peaceful haze filling my meek eyes, offering Her my body to put it out on. “If you insist. Are you sure you won’t drop the gun?” I nod, feeling those butterflies return because I want so dearly to impress Her.

The burning embers tickle my skin as my faulty pain receptors do not relay danger, but excitement. I push my chest out, letting the feeling of that searing heat against my ribcage steal away the thoughts of Janus and Leon alone together. This is Handler’s kindness, and I’ll make sure to thank Her for it even if it doing so strips everything from me. I’d let Her flay the skin from my back for Her attention, were there no other way to earn it. Fortunately, She is kinder than that. She allows me to follow Her back inside, before I develop hypothermia, at Her heel—no closer than one metre away, and no further.

Goodbye for now, Captain.

Farewell, my Leon.

And to my adoring fans, all across the continent…

Au revoir!