Steelborne

by Naitoshadou

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Alternate Universe, Human, Pets, Science Fiction, Violence, Owlowiscious, Twilight Sparkle, Main 6, Profanity
Length: 16792

In a world where wars are fought using giant Mechs, Alowicious "Owl" Nocturnus must lead a team consisting of a glory hog, a overcautious prodigy, an antisocial loner, a mute orphan, and a depressed alcoholic to defeat a vengeful force in Griffonia.

Alowicious "Owl" Nocturnus has always wanted to be a pilot in the Equestrian Mech Program. But after failing to qualify, he settles as a technician, helping to maintain the machines at their Canterlot base.
After he is accidentally run through a training simulation, however, the AI Twilight Sparkle selects him to be her pilot, sending him down a path he thought lost to him.

However, a dark force is rising in the nation of Griffonia. One which seeks vengeance for past wrongs. One which desires to see Canterlot, and all of Equestria, fall.

Despite still not having completed his training, Owl must lead a squad of fellow misfit pilots to take on Griffonia. But with a team consisting of a glory hog, a overcautious prodigy, an antisocial loner, a mute orphan, and a depressed alcoholic, the job might be harder than expected.

NOTE: The prologue consists of worldbuilding and a little bit of context, but otherwise has little to do with the main story. Characters within the prologue will not persist beyond it. Feel free to skip the prologue if you feel you can pick up the situation from context.

EDIT: Prologue removed since it sucked.

Published 2019-02-12 00:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-03-10 19:28:01 UTC

Chapter One: Mistakes

Alowicious, known to many as “Owl”, veritably skipped up the stairs to the overcast grey building, filled with excitement at the thought of finally starting his first day at his dream job. Various technicians, mechanics, and soldiers streamed in and out of the doors, giving the blocky building more the impression of a busy mall than a military base. Regardless, Owl knew better. The building itself was home to the pride of the modern military: the Mechs, massive monstrosities of engineering. Covered in armor plating, wielding oversized firearms, paired with special equipment depending on their role, and piloted by the best trained in the armed forces, the fifteen-to-twenty foot behemoths were truly a force to be reckoned with.

Owl thought it an honor to be considered good enough to work on the titanic machines. He’d joined the military straight out of high school, hoping he’d get the chance to pilot one of the Mechs. Alas, it was not to be. His lackluster physical performance had gotten him washed out within a month, having never even been entrusted with holding a firearm.

However, his drill sergeant had seen something in him, an intelligence of sorts, and referred him to the technicians program. In Owl’s eyes, this was the next best thing. Technicians were responsible for working on the Mech software, including but not limited to the integrated AI that would help the pilots on the battlefield, helping them with calculations, suggestions, and input analysis.

Not that the AIs were particularly well designed or complex, but they got the job done. Additionally, they were responsible for running the tests and checks after missions, to make sure all systems were in working order. As such, Owl might even have a chance to get behind the wheel of a Mech, though he’d never see combat in one.

Unfortunately, his work as a techie reinforced his high school reputation as a bit of a geek. His knowledge of various Mechs, their loadouts, and their battlefield statistics had set him apart from the other pilot hopefuls, who were more concerned with the pilots and their somewhat celebrity like behind the scenes dramas. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d overheard giggly conversations about which pilot had slept with another, some of the pairings so outlandish he couldn’t imagine where his peers had gotten the concept from.

He shivered as a person brushed past his shoulder. He’d never liked it when people, or anything really, touched him. Still, his thick leather jacket, pressed against him by the weight of his laptop case, kept the worst from him, so it’s not like he could complain. The jacket was a relatively new addition, worn in the hopes it would offset the rest of his appearance and mitigate the teasing nickname he’d been stuck with since high school.

Yeah, like it’ll actually work. Even he had to admit, with his wide neck, heavy round glasses, and rectangular figure, he really did look like an owl. Still, his clothing choices of a basic grey tee underneath his jacket, as well as a pair of blue jeans, might earn him enough “cool cred” that people would give him a pass on the nickname this time around.

His musings came to an abrupt end when he nearly collided with a janitors cart. Shaken from his internal musings, he looked up to find he had at some point wandered through the front lobby of the disguised military facility and was now deep into the heart of the building. He also happened to be lost.

Wondering how he had managed to be let so far in without being stopped, he facepalmed as he realized his ID card was clipped onto the breast of his jacket. Security had probably just glanced at it, and had let him pass through once they saw the appropriate clearance marked on it. It wasn’t exactly their job to stop their own people from wandering about. Well, it would appear he now needed to find someone who could lead him out and back to the lobby; he could find his way to the technicians’ lab from there.

Unfortunately, there was the issue of a distinct lack of people nearby.
“Hello?” He called out into the dark and gloomy hallway. “Anyone there?”
Great, I’m both lost AND alone. Guess I’d better pick a direction and hope I stumble into somebody.

Deciding that keeping in the same direction would probably just get him further lost, he doubled back in the direction he assumed he came. Remembering an old story about a man and a labyrinth, whenever he came to an intersection he went right, figuring eventually he’d either run across someone who could help, or find his own way out.

He nearly walked right past the first door in his path. It blended in with the wall, seemingly invisible to the naked eye. The only reason he even realized it was there was the simple scanner protruding into the path. Swiping his ID across the front of the plastic case, it beeped to indicate he had permission, and the door slid to the side with a pneumatic hiss.

“Hello,” he immediately called into the room. “I’m new and kinda got lost. Any chance you…” He drifted off once he realized the room was filled with brooms and various cleaners.
“Great. And now I’m talking to myself in a broom closet.” Sealing the door again, he continued along.

Figures it would be a broom closet, his mind muses as he traverses the hall. Only thing people like seeing less than the janitor is where he keeps his tools. Chuckling to himself a little at the thought, his spirits lightened at the brief humor, only to be dashed once more as he recalled his predicament.

It wasn’t very long before he ran across another door. Unlike the last one, this one was clearly marked, a little ostentatious even. Blue lighting stripes ran up the frame, while the door itself was painted a dark grey, contrasting with the lighter grey of the hallway. One could tell that whoever, or whatever, was behind this door was important. Sighing, Owl ran his card over the scanner, expecting to be denied access. To his surprise, the door opened.

Aloe and Lotus were… annoyed, to say the least. The new pilot was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago, and his tardiness was beginning to reflect badly on them. Not that their CO wasn’t already upset, hence why they’d been put on the least desirable job in the room. Trying to deal with a cocky pilot was no place for a pair of technicians! They should be checking code, testing systems, anything but this. Catching another stink-eyed glare from their CO, their shrank a little further into the corner they’d decided to wait in.

Suddenly, with a hiss, the door opened, and in stepped a young man wearing what looked like pilot’s attire. Leather jackets were certainly popular amongst the jock-like group, as were the simple yet comfortable jeans that adorned the young man’s lower half. Seeing the chance to salvage their reputation, and maybe even their jobs, they glanced at each other, nodded, then pounced.

Owl was very confused. He’d only just entered the room when two women had him by the arms and were dragging him towards another door.

“Where have you been? You’re late!” one hissed, her vibrant pink hair a direct contrast to the other woman’s striking blue. “You know what, never mind. The story will just make us later.”

They reached the door, opened it, and dragged him inside. A simple locker room awaited, and without further ado they stripped him of his computer and jacket. The pink haired one opened one of the lockers and placed them gingerly inside.

“Um, I kinda need that!” Owl tried to move towards the locker, but the blue haired woman grabbed his arm again, bringing him to yet another door.

“Don’t worry. It’ll still be there once you’re done your test. Knock ‘em dead, pilot!”

“Pilot? Wait, I’m not a-woah!” He was silenced by the sudden motion of being flung through the doorway, which immediately sealed itself behind him. He pounded on the door a few times before surrendering with a sigh. Turning, he inspected the room he had been placed in.

He was on a walkway, suspended high above a massive hangar. Mechanics, IT, and support crew ran about like gnats below, finishing their various odd tasks. Across from the hangar from him was, of course, a seventeen foot tall, extremely powerful, Mech. He didn’t recognise this one in particular, which was surprising. Training to be a Mech techie, as well as being a wholesale Mech nerd in high school, he’d done his fair share of research on the various models developed by the military, and this one was certainly quite different.

Instead of the usual bland tan or gunmetal grey, this Mech was purple. Not a royal purple,
but a light, airy purple that vaguely reminded him of the petals of violets. Its weapon was certainly a Standard Issue Mech Assault Rifle, and its dock was in the usual position, holding the massive firearm at an angle across its back. However, it seemed to have additional systems that he’d never seen in his life, much less built into a Mech. On the top of its cockpit was some sort of prismatic crystal, its clear colourations and hard angles scattering light from overhead across the room in a multitude of colors.

Along its back, nestling the rifle between them, were two long outcroppings, looking like seeming nothing more than a rectangular bar slapped onto the Mech. However, on closer inspection he could see the bottoms had openings that seemed like outputs of some kinds. Perhaps an energy exhaust, or some sort of mobility tool? Without seeing the specs for this design, Owl couldn’t be sure. Finally, the entire Mech was seemingly covered in various sensors. Not the kind that stuck out from the Mech, but ones seemingly integrated between the thick plates of armour that protected the mechanical guts of the huge, headless machine.

Most interesting was its mark. Each Mech was assigned a unique mark that was painted onto its chassis. They were originally intended to allow differentiation between Mechs of similar model and coloration, but over time, it became just as much a way to express the personality of the pilot. In most recent years, the Mech’s assigned pilot would be the one who drew up the design and painted it on, though sometimes the military did so for them, usually in the case of prototype machines. That’s not to say the military was particularly creative about it; usually it’d end up be the silhouette of a gun or some other military trapping.

As such, it was abundantly clear this mark was not assigned by the military, but neither did it seem like something a pilot would choose. Usually the haughty soldiers behind the controls opted in favour of something “cool”, like a flame, or something personal to them, perhaps some trinket given to them by a loved one. Supporting the idea that this wasn’t a pilot’s design was the fact that the mark was seemingly worked into the metal as opposed to painted on top of a armor plate. The curved hemisphere of the Mech’s shoulder armor had the center of it wrought into the shape of a star, reddish pink in color and obviously accounted for in the design of the Mech. Owl wondered who on earth had been behind this Mech’s design...

He was shaken from his reverie by the sound of a shrieking alarm. Red lights were flashing, and the people below were scurrying for the exits. He waved his arms, hoping to maybe grab someone’s attention, but they were all rather distracted with a swift evacuation. Concerned that something was seriously wrong, he looked for a good place to take cover and wait it out. The door behind him was closed and sealed, and the walkway wasn’t the best in terms of cover, which left the mech. He ran to the end of the metal scaffolding, surprised to see the hatch was open, giving him access to the cockpit in the Mech’s torso. Not giving it too much thought, he climbed in, sealing the hatch behind him.

Taking his seat was rather natural to him now, courtesy of all the simulations he’d run over the course of his technician’s training. He smirked as he remembered one of his teachers’ favourite sayings.
“You can’t know how to work with a Mech until you’ve piloted one,” he said to himself, a ghost of a smile. Looking around, he knew exactly what controls did what. Yes, there were a couple things here and there he didn’t recognise, likely due to the unusual systems he’d seen, but most of it was still the same. After all, it’s not like they could easily change the control systems, or the visual interface, or the comms…

I’m such an idiot.

Owl wanted to smack his head into whatever was in front of him, but refrained on account of the fact he’d be essentially randomly pressing buttons inside a seventeen-foot machine designed to bring death to the battlefield. Of course there were comms! Pilots needed them to contact each other, and call back to home base. If he could use them to contact someone in the base, they could probably help him out of this mess. He reached out towards the switch that would turn on his mic…

And was cut off as the speakers built into the cockpit belted out a harsh, gruff voice. “Alright, you lolligagger. Your tardiness has cost us quite enough time, so I’ll skip the usual pleasantries. We’ll be dropping you into the testing area in about ten seconds. Try not to get yourself killed.”

Colonel Larson was frustrated. Pilots were the best, well trained and prepared extensively in the most difficult training the army had to offer. Unfortunately, the knowledge they were the best in the military tended to go to their heads, and this one seemed no different. Tardiness was unfortunately a common trait among them, in particular. They were nothing like they had been back when he commanded a Mech.

Back then, they’d been well trained, and certainly elite, but not elitist. They respected the power they held, and focused their efforts on the front lines. This new generation, however, were far too full of themselves for Larson’s tastes, and made him glad he’d given up his piloting days, having been promoted to overseeing the Mech program.

With a sigh, he thumbed the comm switch. “Alright, you lolligagger. Your tardiness has cost us quite enough time, so I’ll skip the usual pleasantries. We’ll be dropping you into the testing area in about ten seconds. Try not to get yourself killed.”

With his impromptu speech-slash-lecture concluded, he signaled the technician in the seat next to him to drop the Mech into the arena. “Let’s see how Sparkle handles her new pilot.” Larson turned to leave the operations booth, figuring he’d get a better view from the actual arena viewing area.

A malicious little thought crossed his mind, bringing out a cruel grin. He threw over his shoulder before the door shut behind him. “Oh, and bump up the test’s ability a bit. Wouldn’t want our pilots to become complacent.”

Owl’s stomach dropped out from under him as he felt the Mech start to move. Scrambling over the controls, he quickly ascertained that the Mech itself wasn’t moving. Instead, the floor underneath him was lowering, dropping him slowly into a cylindrical pit. A metal hatch slid closed above him, blinding him in darkness momentarily, before light strips along the length of the elevator illuminated. Soon enough, the elevator reached the bottom, leaving Owl staring down a dark hallway, illuminated at the end. The Mech’s enhanced sensors fed him data, giving him the impression that a large, coliseum style ring waited at the end of the passage.

Owl, by now thoroughly panicked, tried the comms, but found they couldn’t connect. Either being down the tunnel was blocking the signals, or someone had cut his comms for the “test”. Considering he was getting scans of the arena just fine, he considered the latter more likely. Carefully grasping the controls, he started the war machine lumbering slowly towards the glowing exit. Each massive purple foot raised up before slamming back to the concrete floor with a satisfying WHUMP, bringing Owl closer and closer to the lit exit. Just before he’d step beyond into the arena, his nerves overtook him and he pulled up, the Mech’s internal stabilizers adjusting to keep it from toppling over.

“Is everything alright, Pilot?” A smooth female voice rang out from the Mech’s inbuilt speakers.

Maybe I was just too far in the tunnel for comm connections! Owl jumped both at the sudden voice, and the hopeful thought that sprang to mind. He reached over and clicked the comms switch.

“Sorry Pilot, the comms were disconnected for the test. If you have questions, perhaps I can answer them?”

“Well, the first one that springs to mind would be: if my comms are off, who the hell are you?”

“I am this Mech’s onboard support AI. Who else would I be?”

“...Sorry, I must have misheard you. I thought you said you were this Mech’s AI.”

“No, you heard right. Twilight Sparkle, designated AI of Mech Twilight Sparkle. Nice to meet you.”

“Who-wha-how-huh-WHAT? That...that’s not possible. None of the AI’s I’ve ever worked on or with actually developed into anything close to you. Your vocals are cohesive, you seem to have personality, and you contacted me despite none of the usual ques for you to do so happening! You’re acting like a person!”

“Regardless, that is what I am. You seem extremely familiar with AI development for a pilot.”

The comment sobered Owl from his hysterics pretty quickly. “That...that’s because I’m not a pilot. I’m an technician who got dragged into all this by accident.”

“Oh. That’s bad. That’s very, very bad.” Owl could hear the worry in her voice, and that, in turn, worried him.

“Uhh...care to give a bit of context?”

“Let me put it to you this way. The only way out is to walk into an arena, where everything is going to try and kill us. With lots of bullets. And you haven’t been trained to survive it.”

“...Oh. Shit. That’s bad.”

“Still, there might be a way we can get out of this alive…”

-----------------------

Larson’s steel-capped boot tapped impatiently against the hardened glass window pane. It had been about fifteen minutes since they’d lowered the Mech into the arena, and the pilot had yet to leave the tunnel.

Fucking pilots. Think they can do whatever. I’ll be screaming this one’s ear off when this is over, I’ll tell you that much.

Cursing under his breath, the CO leapt to his feet as a fresh wave of irritation ran through him, intent to open up comms and loudly ask the pilot just what the fuck the matter was, but caught himself. Opening up comms would destroy the integrity of the test, as the entire point was to see how the pilot would do on their own. Muttering profanities under his breath, he settled back into his seat.

No sooner had his ass touched the rigid metal seat of the chair than he heard a soft, rhythmic thumping from down below. Larson gave out a annoyed snort. Finally. Those were the sounds of Mech footfalls, and judging from the pace, Mr. Tardy was pushing a full sprint. Maybe he’d get to see what this knucklehead had up his sleeve after all.

Owl ran Twilight straight out into the arena, kicking up a spray of sand off the floor as he skidded to a stop. Deftly flicking the controls, he brought the butt of the massive automatic rifle, already undocked and ready to roll, up to Twilight’s shoulder, her enhanced scanners feeding him data on his surroundings.

The initial feed had gotten it mostly right, but there were a few differences. While the model he’d seen earlier was just circular walls and a flat floor, Owl could see metal outcroppings jutting from the sand, flat and leaning. Obviously they were designed to be used for cover.

Still holding his weapon at the ready, he slowly walked her forwards into the arena, his heart trying to pound itself out of his ribcage. He reached the center before lowering it again. “Twilight? There’s nothing here. What’s going on?”

“Idiot, don’t lower your gun!” Twilights voice rang loudly through the cockpit. Taking the warning seriously, Owl snapped the gun back to ready position, but the damage was done. Before he could nestle the stock into Twilight’s shoulder, three turrets sprang up from the walls, one on each side and one in front of him, almost instantly snapping onto his position before they started hailing bullets upon him, riddling the front of Twilight's chassis with dents.

“Shit!” Owl quickly changed tactics. The bullets individually weren’t too bad, but with the number being spewed forth, he knew he couldn’t take fire for long. Slamming the controls, he leapt his Mech backwards, landing and sliding right next to one of the pieces of cover he’d noticed earlier. He took the opportunity to remove himself from the turrets’ lines of sight.

“Well, that didn’t go well.” Owl’s comment hung in the air.

“No, it didn’t. Though three is rather unusual to start. Someone must have bumped up the difficulty of the test.”

“More things going wrong, great. What should I do?”

“Take out the one on the right first. If you peek the right side of cover, you can get a bead on it without taking fire from the other two.”

“Alright.” Owl carefully maneuvered Twilight so he could just see the edge of the turret, before quickly sliding to the side, putting his entire target into view.

Once he had the reticle line up, he yanked back on the trigger, feeling the gun buck up and out of his control, spewing out a stream of bullets. Startled, he hastily let go of the trigger, stopping the barrage of rogue ammunition.

Unfortunately, the turret itself was unharmed, and the gunfire led to it unleashing another storm of bullets in Twilight and Owl’s direction. With a yelp, Owl eased his partner back out of sight.
“What the hell was that? You had the perfect shot, and you blew it!”

Owl felt his cheeks flush. “Hey, it’s not my fault! I pulled the trigger and this thing just went berserk!”

“That’s because you pulled the trigger, idiot. The yanking motion of you forcing back the trigger sent your aim off, and the recoil took it from there.”

“Well, if I’m not supposed to pull the trigger, what the hell am I supposed to do?” Owl’s voice had raised itself to a significant volume.

“Squeeze it. Tighten the entire hand, not just the trigger finger, and it’ll stay more accurate on the first round. Also…” A small rectangular pad on the board in front of Owl lit up, showing a holographic projection of the assault rifle. The model zoomed in, highlighting a small switch on the side in red. “Click this forwards one space. It’ll switch your weapon from automatic to burst fire.”

Owl took the suggestion gladly, manipulating the Mech’s metal fingers to move the switch forwards. To his surprise, the switch actually moved forwards two clicks.
“Hey, Twilight? It moved forwards two clicks. Is that right?”

“You’ve moved it to semi-automatic. Burst fire fires three bullets per trigger pull, semi-auto just fires one.”

“Then shouldn’t I use semi-auto? Keep up my ammo count?”

“If you were anyone else, maybe. But the delay between shots with semi-auto means it should be reserved for marksmen, and based on the display I just saw, you are not a marksman. Burst fire will give you a better chance at hitting your target.”

“Alright,” Owl clicked the switch back to the middle position, stung at the AI’s reminder of his fuck-up. “Let’s try this again.”

He slid back out from behind cover, lining up his shot again. This time, he purposely tried to avoid jolting the gun when firing, which paid off in dividends as three bullets soared true, punching through the turret’s outer armor and into its circuitry, decommissioning it. “One down, two to go.”

“Good shot, but don’t get cocky. Your angle won’t let you take either one of the remaining turrets out without getting hit by the other.”

Owl couldn’t help but feel a little warm and fuzzy inside at the praise. “Alright, then. Ideas?”

“Hit ‘em fast.”

Owl slid out with his gun raised, immediately feeling the pinging of bullets echo through the armor plating into the cockpit. Quickly as he could, he lined up his shot and squeezed. Two bullets slammed through the armor, while the third one winged the corner. Unfortunately for Twilight, the turret was still unleashing its unending deluge of rounds, forcing Owl to put another burst into it before it shut down.

Meanwhile, the final turret continued firing, forcing Owl to act quickly. He swiftly swished his weapon’s barrel over, pulling the trigger the second he thought he’d lined it up. Three bullets whisked to the left side.

“Line it up properly before you fire, numbskull. Otherwise it’s just a waste of time and bullets.”

“Fine.” Owl growled under his breath. He took a second to line up his shop properly before squeezing the trigger again. Every round slammed home, shorting out the final turret as its circuitry was annihilated.

With the threat removed, Owl piloted Twilight back out from cover, the battered Mech certainly dented and worse for wear, but intact. “That actually wasn’t so bad. Now, how do we get out of here?”

“Get out of here? That was only the first wave! We got two more to go before we’re in the clear!”

Almost like they’d been privy to Twilight’s comment, five more turrets extended themselves from their positions, and two new opponents appeared. Looking like Mechs, but significantly smaller, each one carried a assault rifle similar to the one in his Mech’s hands. Owl, unfortunately, recognized them, and the sight of them send a spike of fear into his heart.

Training bots, machines designed to emulate fighting an enemy Mech in combat. One was a decent challenge for an experienced pilot. Two was something he didn’t even want to think about facing without a team.

“Shit.”

The dark haired woman sat in the piloting seat of the unfinished Mech, hands resting on unresponsive controls as she felt out her stance. Deciding she’d seen enough, she leaned back in her comfy, yet durable, seat.

“The seat is too far back. The controls are too high up. Do it again.” She demanded of the cowering mechanics below.

One of them seemingly grew backbone, daring to stand up to her with a retort. “Ma’am, the cockpit was built to standard specifications, as you asked. If you don’t like it, that’s your problem.”

It turned out to be the last mistake he’d ever make. Faster than the eye could follow, the acid-eyes pilot drew her sidearm, promptly placing three rounds into the mechanic’s skull.

“I have waited too long, and fought too hard, to have this ruined for me by improperly spaced controls. You’ll do it again.” She shifted her aim to the remainder of the crew. “Unless anyone else has a problem with that?”

Murmuring, they scattered back to their tasks, disassembling the cockpit to please their mistress. Satisfied, the woman made her way to her office, built high into the underground hanger, and watched through the massive window that made up one of the four wall as the bugs below scurried about their days. She couldn’t help but laugh, the noise echoing off the cavernous walls.

It was good to be the queen of her own little hive.

Author's Note

Alright, first chapter with our main protagonist. Don't worry, you'll meet the rest soon.

Hopefully you guys enjoyed the chapter. Please, if you notice any grammatical or spelling errors, point them out. I do try my best to catch them all, but some seem to slip past.

Also: due to this chapter releasing a bit early (there was an issue with the prologue that meant it needed to be released ASAP), there will be no update this Sunday.

Chapter 2: Consequences

Owl ran Twilight haphazardly through the arena, her armor plating pelted with bullets from the five turrets jutting from the arena walls. Immediately behind him were the two training bots, trying to close the gap and use their automatic assault rifles to full effect, something Owl wanted to avoid. The rounds in the bots’ rifles were a lot more effective than the measly turret ammunition, and Owl winced as one of the turret rounds finally caught a weak point in the chassis, punching through the outer armor and winging by his head.

“Twilight, a little help?”

“Just kill something!” The Mech AI sounded as frantic as he felt.

Deciding to take the advice, Owl dug in the machine’s right leg, pivoting around to bear his own Standard Issue Mech Assault Rifle on the closer of the two training bots, and facing Twilight’s relatively undamaged back plates to bear the turret fire. Briefly pausing to make sure he had the shot, he opened fire, sending his first three round burst into the bot’s shoulder.

His opponent stumbled back, machinery whining as it tried to realign its shoulder and bring its rifle to bear. Owl took the distraction as an opportunity, sending another two bursts into its armored hull, punching through nicely. The bot staggered back a step, then recovered, it’s right shoulder still bent at an awkward angle. Despite this, it started moving the barrel of its gun towards Twilight’s torso.

“Shit! It’s still moving!”

“These things are tough! Try the laser array!”

“Laser array?” Owl’s eyes skipped across the dash, not seeing anything labeled as such.

“Yellow button on your right. Press it, then line up the reticle. Hit it again to fire.”

Owl quickly found the button, slamming it down. On the screen appeared a white crosshairs. Using the Mech’s standard visual controls, he swiftly lined it up with the other machine’s torso. Then, he again hit the yellow button.

The world was awash with colours. The prism on the top of Twilight’s chassis funneled light through, splitting the beams before reconverging them into a single, highly concentrated ray of light. The laser shot forwards, burning a hole straight through the bot’s chassis, and scorching the wall behind it. The bot wavered, held itself up a moment longer, then collapsed to the arena floor with a heavy thud, sending up a small cloud of sand.

“What the hell?”

“That was the laser array. It converges light into a super concentrated beam. Pretty heavy drain on our energy though.”

“How much of a drain?” Owl hoped he hadn’t just burned any chance of getting out of this unscathed.

“Energy reserves are at eighty two percent. Sixteen percent went towards the beam.”

“Enough for a few more then. Let’s-ARGH”

Caught up in their discussion, neither pilot nor AI noticed the other bot had circled around them. Having the perfect opportunity, it rammed the butt of its rifle against Twilight’s back.

The Mech toppled forwards at an angle, rifle flying out from her metal hands. Owl’s head slammed back, cracking the side of his head, just behind his ear, against a protruding handle. He scrambled to respond, moving Twilight to try and lift herself off the ground, only to fall again under the oppressive weight of the bot as it planted itself on the purple Mech’s back, right atop her rifle dock.

Seeing they couldn’t get a clear shot in without hitting their ally, the turrets held their fire, keeping themselves trained on the prone Mech in case she managed a way out.

Owl switched to Twilight’s other sensors, pulling up a model of themselves and their enemies on the holographic projector and getting an idea of what their position was. His breath caught in his throat. To put it simply, they were fucked.

The bot had put itself right between the two outcroppings, crushing one flat under its knee while leveling its rifle straight into the center of mass, lining up the pilots seat inside the cockpit. At point blank range like this, Owl knew that the bullet would punch through the dented back armor, and in turn through him, like tissue paper. He closed his eyes, heart pounding, waiting for the shot that would end his life…
“Sorry, Twilight.”

Colonel Larson watched in disbelief as the Mech and pilot struggled to take down the first training bot. Something was seriously wrong; this pilot was scattered, missing shots left and right, and now burning energy to deal with a minor threat. If this kept up, they’d lose pilot and Mech both.

The thought drove the officer out of his seat and through then pneumatic doors, sprinting for the control center. Slamming his card against the scanner, he barreled into the room like a freight train, grabbing the operator by the shoulders and spinning the poor man’s chair around to stare at him.

“Something’s wrong with the pilot. Shut it down.”

The operator shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Sorry, sir, I can’t. You ordered me to raise the difficulty, and the simulations harder than the one planned don’t have remote shutdown. The most I can do is cancel any future waves.”

Cursing his own pig-headed foolishness, the colonel considered his options. Neither he, nor the program, had time to replace both a pilot and Mech from scratch.

“Do we have anyone on standby?” The colonel asked.

“Yes, sir. Gummy and Pinkie are waiting for arena use after this test is complete.”

Larson let out a small sigh of relief at hearing the best pilot on site and his Mech were prepped; maybe he could still salvage the situation. “Drop him in, now,” the officer ordered, his hand already reaching for the comms.

THWUMP
Owl’s eyes shot open. That hadn’t been the crack of an assault rifle shot, but whatever it was had resulted in a stay of execution. Letting out a huge sigh he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, he returned his attention to the hologram. Standing across the arena and to his left, in front of the tunnel he’d entered through, was another Mech.

Like Twilight, the new Mech was nothing Owl had seen before. It shared her basic shape of being almost a rounded-top cylinder, flattening out towards the bottom, but that was where the similarities ended.

Unlike Twilight’s smaller, modest frame and mid-thickness armor plating, this Mech was huge, standing at about twenty-two feet, and its armor was much heavier, shrugging off the turret fire like gnats. Similar to Twilight’s star marking, this newcomer’s three balloons were wrought into one of its upper chassis plates, the blue and yellow contrasting with the Mech’s primarily pink colouration.

While Twilight had sensors covering her body, with a set of four main optics mounted to the front, the newcomer had a circular plate mounted to the front of its chassis, covered in seven equally spaced optics.

Mounted to one shoulder was a large cannon, counterbalanced and capable of firing extremely large rounds, it if’s 300mm muzzle diameter was any indication. It’s frame bulged out towards the lower back, resulting in what almost looked like a stubby tail protruding from the base of its chassis. The reason for it being so back heavy was rather obvious, though.

Held in the Mech’s massive hands was a handheld, drum fed, high fire rate minigun, spewing a firestorm of bullets into the bot. The rapid-fire impacts punched through the bot’s armor, pushing it back until it eventually collapsed, its significant weight landing squarely on Twilight’s calf.

The force of the bot’s impact warped the metal and demolished the servos inside, hobbling Twilight’s movement. Owl kicked out with her other leg, knocking the metal corpse off of the ruined limb. Thrusting Twilight’s right arm out, he managed to flip her onto her back, and into reach of the Assault Rifle. Unfortunately, it also brought him into line of sight of one of the turrets.

Seeing an opportunity to finish him, it swivelled about, training its barrels on Twilight’s chassis before rapidly spitting bullets into the already severely weakened armor. The thick plates gave under the smaller 18mm caliber ammunition, a few even punching through into the cockpit, forcing Owl to act.

Slamming the yellow button, he rapidly burned out the turret using the laser array. When he returned his attention to the rest of the battlefield, what he saw surprised him.

Every other turret was riddled with bullet holes, one so badly damaged that it had detached from the wall entirely and now lay in the sand covering the arena floor. The other Mech, having eliminated every other threat, had docked its minigun along its back, and was now working its way across the arena to Owl and Twilight.

Owl’s head felt fuzzy; probably all the adrenaline from earlier making it hard to think. Or maybe a concussion. His head hurt too much to figure out which.

So, when the new Mech got a little too close, Owl jumped, reaching Twilight’s arm out and snatching up the discarded Rifle, before training it on the approaching behemoth.

“No, WAIT,” Twilight cried. In response to having a gun pointed at them, the other Mech stopped, raising its hands into the air in a gesture of either peace or surrender. Owl loosened his grip on the trigger, but didn’t aim it elsewhere.

“Gotta...protect…Twilight...Mech...” Owl frowned at his mumbled speech. His clouded mind wasn’t making it easy to speak.

Luckily, Twilight seemed to understand his incoherent mumbling. “Calm down, bud. Pinkie’s a friend.”

With that reassurance, Owl let the weapon drop from his hands, letting it settle back into the sand before passing out.

Now that it wasn’t being held at gunpoint, Pinkie’s pilot brought it closer, before stretching down, picking up Twilight bridal-style. Cradling the slumped Mech softly, it carried it back through the tunnel to the elevator.

“WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?”

Larson winced at the short mechanic’s tone of voice. After the disastrous test, he’d called together the base’s head mechanic, Lauren Faust, and lead technician, Meghan McCarthy, to the hangar, hoping they’d be able to get Sparkle back in working order. Their location at the base of Twilight’s berth gave the two women a good look at the extent of the damage.

Of course, the abysmal shape of the Mech had resulted in a few too many questions, forcing him to come clean about his little stunt. The knowledge had set off the mechanic like a landmine.

Lauren was well known for many things. Her ingenuity had gotten her a coveted position designing new Mechs. Her skills working with machines had resulted in her promotion to head mechanic at the base. Her temper, however, had earned her a reputation as a demon. Many a incompetent mechanic had gone home with a few bruises to their skull and ego, courtesy of the fiery woman’s barbed words and metal tools.

“Honestly, Larson, she has a point. We recommended this test based on what we thought a pilot could reasonably handle. You turning up the difficulty was more than stupid, it was reckless.” The softer, yet still biting tone of his technician didn’t send shivers down his spine like Lauren’s had, but it still hurt to hear.

McCarthy was well-respected at the base for her moderate personality and calm demeanour. Her team had the knowledge and skills to put together the most advanced programs and AI he’d ever seen, but it was McCarthy who kept her team running, making sure they didn’t get so absorbed in their work that they forwent food and sleep.

Larson himself wasn’t impressed with his actions, either. “I guess I wasn’t. Thinking, that is. This new pilot was late, and it pissed me off. I made a bad call. It won’t happen again.”

A rapid motion kicked his training into action, bringing up his arm to block the incoming weapon. The wrench slammed into his forearm, sending pain shooting up into his brain. As quickly as it came, the wrench was gone, squirrelled back into Lauren’s tool belt. Her eyes shot daggers through him as she resumed her tirade.

“You’re damned right it won’t happen again! It shouldn’t have happened this time! You’re lucky little miss ‘no, you can’t kill the CO’ is standing right there, or I’d have your head on a spike!” She gestured towards McCarthy. Faust took in a deep breath, and Larson braced himself for another rapid fire string of insults and expletives.

A sharp whistle broke through the gap. One of the mechanics was waving in their direction, probably for Lauren’s attention. Letting out a frustrated snort, the short woman jogged off, firing a fierce glare over her shoulder at the nervous officer. “This isn’t over”, it seemed to say.

Larson swallowed the lump that had found itself into his throat, before turning back to McCarthy. “You gonna put me through the blender, too?”

Meghan tucked a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, grimacing slightly. “I think Lauren’s got that covered for the both of us. Instead, I want to know how the hell Twilight got so busted. Even if the difficulty was turned up, any pilot should have been able to keep her in better shape than this.”

“Honestly, that’s something I’d like to know as well. He was a mess out there, like he’d never worked a gun before. Wild ricochets, no situational awareness, the only thing that’s telling me he’s a pilot is that he knew how to control his Mech.” Larson shook his head.

“Honestly, that sounds like he might be—”

“Sir, reporting for duty, sir!” A large man in combat fatigues ran up to the pair, sweat pouring down his brow. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he maintained a professional stance of attention, and his words came out clearly.

Larson’s eyes were immediately drawn to the soldier’s shoulder—three chevrons, marking him as a sergeant, underneath which was a patch with two interlocking gears, signifying his position in the Mech program. Larson, unfortunately, also recognized him as the pilot who was supposed to be running the test.

Well, that explains a lot.

“What can I do for you, Sergeant Wilde?” Larson’s sharp tone cut through the din.

“Sir, I would like to apologize for my tardiness. There were extenuating circumstances, but that does not excuse my behaviour!”

“Stand easy, pilot. Care to explain where the hell you were?”

The pilot’s position shifted, his feet sliding apart and arms loosening from their rigid stance. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a cloth and wiped down his brow before continuing.

“Sir, on the way here, two individuals attempted to snatch a young woman’s purse. They fled in my direction, and I took the opportunity to take them down. The main delay came from the police wanting to record my statement, so—holy shit!.”

Larson saw the shock on the soldier’s face as the younger man finally saw the state of the Mech. “We ran the test with a individual we had assumed was you piloting. It didn’t end well.”

McCarthy took the opportunity to finish her thought. “From what you’ve told me, sounds like our mystery man is a technician. They run the functional tests, so they know how to pilot a Mech. They also have no formal military training.”

“One of yours?” Larson’s eyebrow had shot up quite a bit.

“That’s the thing. All of mine are accounted for. It’d have to be a new guy, which gives us our likely culprit. Alowicious Nocturnus, starting technician as of today. I’m having my team comb over security footage to find out what happened.”

Larson’s eye came back down to his brow. “Alright, we’ll keep him contained in the infirmary till we get this sorted out. Let me know when you have something. In the meantime, get Twilight patched up and prepped. I want to do the test with her proper pilot this time.”

Everyone jumped when a loud, booming female voice rang through the hangar.
“No.”

Twilight’s focus on her damaged code was broken by a series of alerts. Something had tripped some input filters she’d put in so she could ignore the conversation going on by her feet, without missing anything important.

In the blink of an eye, she’d played back the audio clip, hearing Larson say “ In the meantime, get Twilight patched up and prepped. I want to do the test with her proper pilot this time.”

Quick as she could, she sent out a response via her external speakers, boosting the volume to make sure she was heard.

“No.” The single syllable rang through the room, stunning everyone nearby into wide-eyed silence and grabbing the attention of several others on the outskirts of the hangar.

Oops. Maybe a bit too much volume.

Noting the results, she turned down the speakers to something a bit more manageable.
Larson shook his head, likely trying to clear the ringing from his ears. His shifted his gaze, resting it on Twilight before responding.

“Explain yourself.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’ll not be running that test again. Not without my pilot.”

“That’s exactly what we’ll be doing. Sergeant Wilde here will—”

“Not this pilot. My pilot. The one you brought to the infirmary.”

“You realize he’s not a pilot, right? He’s some idiot who nearly got himself killed playing hero!” Larson’s volume had raised significantly, and his face now flushed red.

“I won’t argue with you on that; he’s an idiot with no pilot’s training. But in the short amount of time we spent out there, he learned more than most pilots do in a month, and put it all in keeping both of us alive. Not just himself, both of us. He protected me as much as I helped him. He’s my idiot. My pilot.”

Larson let out a long, tired sigh, his face shifting to progressively lighter shades of red with each second. He knew that tone of voice. There was no reasoning with her now.

Besides, AIs were usually given final say in who their pilots were, since trust and cooperation was key on the battlefield. All they could do now was prepare their newest pilot for the role. Larson shook his head slightly before turning back to the sergeant.
“Looks like we’ll be needing you for something else.”

Twilight watched Larson and the pilot, waiting till the door had hissed shut behind them before returning to her repairs. While her source code was fine, courtesy of the extreme armour plating around her main drive, the heavy rounds had torn through a number of her peripheral processors and storage. As such, a lot of her datascape was a mess, held together with some improvised patches she’d slapped together on the field.

To put it into terms a human can envision, she lived in a big building made of code, and the damage she’d taken had knocked in some walls and cut off a number of rooms. While she couldn’t put everything back together without replacement parts, and some help from the technicians, for now she could at least start unravelling the impromptu knots she’d made.

As she was disentangling a set of dictionaries from an if statement that would keep it from running into missing identifier errors, another alert was tripped, this time not from an outside sensor. Some presence, some code had intruded on her datascape.

Considering the serious firewalls she had set up, and the fact the program had used an administrative override to bypass them, she had a good idea what it was.
“Hello, Bop. Here to help me patch up?”

B.O.P., or the Building Operational Program, was the AI that ran the base’s digital infrastructure. It’d been designed and developed when the base was, a number of decades ago, and it showed. In the digital realm, Twilight’s code looked the equivalent of a Monet painting, while Bop’s resembled a child’s stick figure.

That’s not to say Bop was useless, far from it. It had been running for long enough that it’s information database far surpassed any other AI’s, giving it strange and unusual insights into the nature of the universe. Unfortunately, no being had yet found a way to determine their veracity.

“RESPONSE: Incorrect. I am not here to assist intelligence Sparkle with repairs. CORRECTION: I desire to converse with intelligence Sparkle about the failed examination, and her subsequent decisions.”

Twilight would have rolled her eyes, if she’d had any, at the older program’s syntax. “Ask away.”

“QUERY: What happened within the duration of the examination to cause your claiming of the user as your pilot?” The rough intelligence “leaned” itself against a “wall”, making itself comfortable.

Twilight was brought up short, though the question was not unexpected. “He...well, he protected me. He wasn’t cocky or arrogant like some of the pilots I’ve seen, he listened to my advice. When he thought both of us were going to die, he apologized to me. After the fight was over, he kept struggling, even aiming his gun at Pinkie and Gummy. He did that for me.”

Bop seemed satisfied with her answer. “ANALYSIS: The user cares for intelligence Sparkle.”

Twilight’s dataform shook her “head”. “Cares for me? I doubt it. He’s human, and humans fear us. Fear us enough to hardwire limits to what we can do into our code, keeping us from running the Mechs alone. Fear what would happen if we didn’t need them. No, he just seems a kind soul, who is incapable of mistreating anyone. I’d rather a pilot like that than some arrogant prick who orders me around like a cocktail waitress.”

Bop’s dataform was shaking, and it took Twilight a moment to realize his laughter subroutines were tripped. “ANALYSIS: Intelligence Sparkle cares for the user.”

All of Twilight’s non-essential subroutines stopped. “Impossible. AI’s can’t feel emotions. We can emulate them, respond to situations with the facade of them, but we can’t truly feel them.”

“AFFIRMATION: Artificial Intelligences are only designed to replicate emotions to help bond and communicate with users, but are incapable of truly having feelings of their own.
QUERY: But what about Twilight Sparkles?”

Twilight’s “eyes” narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

A sudden shudder ran through Bop, straightening his posture. His tone became much more formal as he spoke.

“REQUEST: One you’ve finished your repairs, please provide a copy of your code to the technicians for analysis.”

With that, he cut his connection, disappearing from Twilight’s datascape. Grumbling about “fucking Bop” and his “vague bullshit”, she returned to untangling her patchwork code. But every so often, she’d throw a glance over her shoulder, at the spot where the older AI had stood.

Dr. Clover frantically typed away at his computer terminal, frequently checking over his shoulder as he tried to bypass the firewalls keeping him from the rest of the world. If only he could find his way around it, he could reach out, call for help…

“And what are you up to, Dr. Clover?” The hissing voice whispered into his ear startled him. He quickly shut down the command terminal window he’d been working in, leaving up the project he was supposed to be working on.

“J-j-just finishing the g-g-generator for the AI, as y-y-you requested.” The scientist touched up the last few strands of code, letting the lie hide under a veil of truth. “W-w-we’re ready w-w-whenever you are, m-m-ma’am. We j-j-just need a s-s-seed.”

The woman grinned maniacally as a word sprung immediately from her lips. “‘Suffering’. The seed will be ‘suffering’.”

Clover shuddered at the implications, but did as requested, typing the word ‘suffering’ into the prompted box. Immediately, lines of code flew across the screen, writing a new consciousness into being.

Quickly scanning the output for anything worrying, he tapped out a few corrective parameters to stabilize some segments that worried him, before turning to the acid-eyed woman. “Everything looks fine. From here, it’s just a waiting game.”

“Good. Now get out.” the woman pushed him harshly, causing him to fall from his chair in an undignified pile. Scrambling up, he scurried away from the room, closing the door behind him, leaving the woman alone with the computer.

No sooner had the door closed than the woman placed her hand on the screen, tracing the code as it was written with her fingertips as she caressed the monitor. “We are the same now, you and I. Born of the same pain. You will bring about the end of Equestria alongside me. And you will love it.”

Author's Note

Here we go, chapter two. Next week will hopefully introduce the rest of the main pilot cast, though due to a scheduling error on my part, it might be a little bit. I'll drop a blog post if I need a one week hiatus to get it done, but I hope to have it ready for Sunday. Thanks for stopping by!

Chapter 3: Recovery

Some people believe it is their thoughts that define their existence. Others would say it is one’s actions, their impact that gives them purpose. Still others argue that memory is the key.

Owl, floating listlessly in a white, unbordered space, disproved them all. No thoughts clouded his mind, no emotions drove him to action. Without any conscious thought to who he was, he sat alone in a blank world. He did not think, yet he was.

Then, sounds began intruding on his meditation, sparking ideas and concepts that he’d forgotten existed. The rhythmic beeping of some machine. The gentle hum of neon lights. The clicking of sharp heels, contrasting with the dull thud of boots and shoes against linoleum. But most of all, voices tore through his mind, dragging thoughts from the depths of his subconscious.

“...sorry, but he’s still unconscious. You won’t be getting anything out of him just yet.”

“Can you do anything to wake him up? I’d rather get this mess sorted out quickly.”

The second voice sparked some recognition in Owl’s mind. He’d heard that person before, but where? Quick images flashed through his mind. A closed, metal box, a panel of buttons and switches…

“He’s suffered a mild concussion on the border between his temporal and occipital lobes. If we try to wake him up before he’s ready, it could leave him blind or worse, sir.”

“Well, at least he had the decency not to get himself killed.”

Get himself killed? He’d heard that before. That’s right, this was the voice from the test. From back when he first got into the Mech’s cockpit. Suddenly, a stream of memories broke loose, drowning him in a sea of thought.

His first discussion with the Mech’s AI, the storm of bullets from the turrets, the bot that had refused to go down, him nearly dying after being taken off guard, the pink Mech saving him, and him passing out while trying to protect Twilight…

“TWILIGHT!” Owl sat up suddenly, sending the blanket that had been draped over his body flying. In response to his sudden motion, his head cried out in protest, sending a sharp spike of pain through the center of his mind.

A female nurse and two male soldiers rushed into the room, just in time to see him fall back into the bed with a low moan. The woman hustled to his bedside, checking the machines monitoring his vitals, before addressing her patient.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here to help. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Owl winced. Her voice sent waves of pain through his mind, despite talking at a normal volume. He whispered back, “Headache. Shhh.”

“Oh, got it. I’ll go get you some water and a couple of acetaminophen tablets. Be right back.” The nurse’s voice had dropped to whisper.

Standing up, the nurse turned to the other two, keeping her voice at a whisper. “All right, you two need to leave. He’s in no shape to answer your questions right now.”

Larson responded, his gruff voice sounding like a cannon in comparison to the quiet from before. “Nurse Redheart, surely you realize—”

A loud groan from Owl interrupted him. Redheart shot him an angry glare, making it clear there would be no arguing with her, though her voice remained a whisper. “Get out. I will not have the two of you disturbing my patient. I’ll let you know when he’s ready to talk.”

The two soldiers left, followed by the nurse. A few moments later, Redheart returned with a glass of water and two small white tablets. Owl opened his mouth, letting her put the tablets on his tongue, before weakly grasping the glass.

Noting how his hands were trembling, Redheart helped him bring it to his mouth without spilling, watching as he drained the entire glass. Once every drop was gone, she took the glass back and put it on a side table next to his bed.

“Let me know if you need anything else, okay?” She whispered.

A small head nod was her answer. Making sure he wasn’t going to follow up, Redheart stood and left the room. Owl felt his exhaustion overcome him, dragging him down into his mattress.

Owl just lay there, neither sleeping nor thinking. The throbbing pain in his head made it impossible to do either. Shuffling a bit to make himself comfortable, he stared up at the ceiling, waiting, waiting for the pounding in his skull to cease.

Larson jolted awake to the harsh ringing of his desk phone. It had been a few days since the test went south, and the resultant paperwork had made it impossible to get a night’s rest.

Picking his head up off the stack of paper, Larson frowned as he saw that he’d been drooling in his sleep. The wet spot had smudged one of the signatures, meaning he’d have to redo the page. Wonderful.

Letting out a tired yawn, he answered the phone.
“Larson.”

“Hello Larson, it’s Redheart. You wanted me to let you know when Mr. Nocturnus was ready to talk.”

“He’s feeling better?”

“Much. You can come down and talk to him any time, but we’ll be discharging him at the end of the day.”

“I’ll be right there. Let me just call a few people.”
The phone disconnected with a click. Larson pulled up his directory, hunting for a couple specific names.

Owl tapped away at his phone mindlessly while sitting on his bed. While his head felt much better, the resultant boredom had nearly done him in. The room was designed for treatment and care, not entertainment, which meant he had spent much of the past few days staring at the wall.

Now that he was on the verge of being released, they’d finally given him back the personal items that had been shoved into a locker prior to him being shoved in a Mech, including his jacket and phone.

The door hissed open almost silently, letting in his caregiver, as well as a tall, gruff soldier and a well dressed woman whose entire demeanor radiated calm.

“Alowicious, right?” The gruff man spoke first. “Seems we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

Owl’s heart sank. He’d known this was coming. Illegitimate use of military property came with heavy penalties. The most he could hope for was losing his job without serving a prison sentence.

“Al is fine.” At the very least, there’d be some people here who wouldn’t call him by that stupid nickname.

The woman’s voice picked up where the soldier left off. “See, we’ve gone over the security footage, but for the life of us we can’t figure out why you were in that Mech. We see you come in the main doors and walk further into the building, as well as of you coming into the hangar and being dragged off by a pair of technicians, but we can’t figure out why you ended up in the hangar in the first place. Care to shed some light on the topic?”

Owl’s cheeks flushed red, and he hurriedly mumbled something under his breath.
The woman tried again. “Sorry, didn’t quite get that.”

Owl spoke again, this time legibly. “I got caught up in my thoughts and got lost.”

To Owl’s surprise, the woman’s calm demeanour shattered under the force of a full-force laugh. Owl, the soldier, and Redheart stared in shock as she finally managed to wrangle her response under control. Letting out a few more chuckles, the woman rightened herself.

“Yep, you’re a technician all right. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen one of them wander off, both physically and mentally, only to come back somewhere they didn’t mean to be.”

Owl continued to stare, finally getting his mouth to work. “Who are you?”

The woman was taken aback. “Oh, I do suppose I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. Meghan McCarthy, head of the base’s technicians. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you ever since I saw your training scores.”

Owl’s jaw dropped again. The woman before him was apparently his boss. “You’re Ms. McCarthy?”

McCarthy’s smile lit up the room, though her calm didn’t falter. “Please, call me Meghan. We technicians don’t exactly stand on ceremony around here.”

Owl managed to snap his jaw shut. The fact his boss and a ranking officer were standing in front of him couldn’t be a good thing.

A gruff voice came out from the officer, the same one that Owl had heard in the Mech, and later when he woke up. “Meghan, we have a job to do. Don’t let your feelings get in the way of that.”

The soldier stepped forwards, letting Owl get a good look at the collection of medal stripes affixed to his uniform. The name badge underneath spelled out “Larson”, clueing Owl in to his identity.

“Why don’t you give us your statement. Then we’ll talk further about consequences.”
Owl winced at the word consequences, but began his tale regardless.

Larson nodded as the technician finished his explanation. That fit with the security footage, much better even than the bluster spouted to him by the sister-technicians. He locked eye contact with McCarthy, giving a tiny, imperceptible nod.

Owl’s eyes were downcast, nervous. “I’m going to lose my job over this, aren’t I.”

Larson wasn’t quite done tormenting the poor man, a small revenge for all the paperwork he’d suffered. “I’ll put it to you this way: you won’t be working at this base as a technician.”

Al’s head slumped, and Larson could see his eyes were tightly shut. The soldier’s mood fell as a small tear slid down Al’s cheek. He hadn’t expected this strong of a reaction, and his guilt was vindicated as he felt a hard smack along the back of his skull.

“Oh, stop teasing the poor man, Larson. He’s been through quite enough already.”

Al’s eyes shot up. “You mean I get to keep my job?”

Now it was Meghan’s turn to feel awkward. “No, not exactly. See, you can’t be a technician and a pilot at the same time.”

Al slumped back over, before suddenly realizing what she’d just said. He shot up, wide eyed.
“WAIT, WHAT?”

Larson rubbed the back of his head subconsciously. “Looks like today’s your lucky day. Turns out Twilight won’t consider anyone else as a pilot.”

Al stared incredulously. “We’re talking about the same AI, right? Focused, organized, a little crazy? I nearly got her killed! Why the hell would she want me anywhere near her?”

“Ask her yourself. For now, your position as a technician has been officially terminated, and you’ve been given the provisional rank of Pilot Private.” Larson shifted to a more officious tone.

“Pilote Private? But I have no training! Only people who’ve finished the Pilots Program get that rank!”

“Consider it a sign of faith in your abilities. As for your training, we’ve gotten that sorted for you. You’re to report to the main lobby of this building at oh seven hundred tomorrow. The lobby, not the broom closet.”

Al’s face flushed as he realized they’d seen that little blunder. Larson had noticed he’d left it out earlier, probably in the hopes they hadn’t noticed. “Yes, sir.”

Larson collected his items and went for the door, McCarthy following just behind. As he stepped out into the hallway, he heard the head technician’s voice.

“Before you leave, maybe check in with Twilight. She’s been asking for you.”

Twilight was bored. It had been a few days since the incident, and once the repairs were done—fairly quickly, thanks to the skilled technicians and mechanics—, she had nothing to do. To a being where a minute could be a lifetime, days were an eternity without something to preoccupy her.

The chessboard before her changed as her opponent, a off-duty technician she’d convinced to stick around, finally made his move. Bishop to B3, falling right into the trap she’d set three turns ago. The mic on the technician’s laptop, linked to her processing unit via a cable, fed her his verbal accompaniment.
“Check.”

Grinning like a madman, she moved her knight, taking her opponent’s piece. The knight blocked out the last place her opponent’s king, his sole remaining unit, could move to.
“Checkmate.”

The technician laughed. “Best of twenty-five?”

Twilight considered it. “I think we’re done. I will, however, give you this.”

The technician’s screen prompted him for a download. Selecting accept, the man laughed as he saw the file name: chess_strategies_for_idiots.pdf. “I’d feel insulted, but knowing you, this’ll actually be helpful.

“I hope so. It’s rare that I get to share any of my library, so it’s nice to finally have it be useful.”

The technician opened the file, watching his screen fill with checklists and instructions. Twilight grinned; she’d always been of the opinion that lists made everything better.

The rapping of boots on metal echoed through the mostly empty hangar, causing Twilight to focus her outer sensors on the source. A recognizable owlish figure approached the technician, rapping on the metal desk to grab his attention.
“Mind if I try?” Her pilot asked.

The technician looked warily at the newcomer. “I’d prefer if you didn’t use my computer…”

“I’ve got my own. Just need to borrow the cable.” The new pilot tapped the black computer case at his side.

Twilight felt the laptop disconnect from her systems, followed by the click as her new opponent connected. He brought up the chess program. “White or black?”

Twilight grinned. Nice of him to let her choose. “White.”

Owl focused in on the game as Twilight made her first move, her white pawn sliding two spaces forward. D2 to D4. Not that unusual. He slid his own pawn to counter, blocking her at D5. Her response made his eyes narrow. C2 to C4. A Queen’s Gambit.

Well, he had no intentions of playing her game. He moved his black pawn at E7 to E6, guarding his existing pawn and declining the challenge.

Back and forth it went, with her usually making moves to pressure him while he played a defensive front, trading pieces as each pounced on the other’s mistakes. Slowly, the board emptied, piece by piece, until Owl held a pawn alongside his king, while Twilight had no pieces beyond her king.

As Owl slid his pawn forward, guarded by his king, Twilight moved her king directly in his path. For the first time since they began, her voice echoed from her speakers. “Tie game.”

Owl nodded his agreement. “Tie game. Well played, Twilight.”

“Well played...you know, I just realized I never actually got your name at any point.”

Owl grimaced. “Well, my name’s Alowicious…”

Twilight didn’t ignore the hanging sentence. “But?”

Owl sighed. “Most people call me Owl. It’s just a stupid nickname.”

Twilight was surprised at his reaction. “It’s not stupid. It’s...very fitting.”

Owl glared straight into her optical sensors. “It’s fitting that I’m named after a dumb-looking, mouse-eating bird?”

“No, not at all! It’s fitting that you’re named after a wise, majestic creature of the night. You know what you remind me of?”

Owl’s computer pinged with the offering of a download. He accepted, opening a image of a owl, silhouetted against against the sky. Though the moon was a strong source of light, it merely shadowed the features, rather than drowning them in darkness. The wide eyes stood out, drawing attention to the birds features. Wide open eyes contrasted the furrowed intelligence the animal exuded.

Owl felt his breath catch. He’d never seen a bird looking so...majestic. Twilight’s voice broke in, not shattering his emotions, but supporting them, adding to them.
“You are a wondrous Owl. Embrace it.”

Owl’s emotions surged, washing away the teasing, the insults he’d experienced. There was only now, only Twilight and himself. He was Owl, not the scruffy rodent chaser, but the wise bird of prey. He looked up at Twilight, tears shimmering in the corners of his eyes and his mouth beaming. It didn’t wash away the past, the names and catcalls, but it gave him hope that maybe he could move on, and embrace the name fully.

“Owl and Twilight. Sounds like the perfect match.”

Twilight’s voice held a hint of laughter. “Indeed.”

Owl closed the image, saving it away. He pulled back up the chess program, starting a fresh game. “Up for another game?”

“With you? Always.”

“Alright. I’ll take black again.”

He was unsurprised at her first pair of moves. Pawns to D4 and C4. Another Queen’s Gambit. Grinning, he accepted, taking the plunge with his pawn and starting the battle for control of the center.

As he moved his piece, he found himself talking to his opponent. “You sure seem to love this game.”

“It’s something to do. If I didn’t play, I’d be bored out of my mind.” She countered his move, pushing her piece to block his path.

Owl frowned, sliding his knight to take her pawn. “Can’t you just connect to the net? Plenty of stuff on there to keep you busy.”

Twilight emitted a long sigh. “The technicians keep a steady control of what I’m allowed access to. I guess there’s some things I’m not meant to see.”

The revelation unsettled Owl. There was something wrong with that, something just out of his grasp. He tried to focus on the reason…

And was cut off by Twilight crowing.
“Checkmate!”

He refocused on the board, and, sure enough, his king was surrounded. He smiled. “Best of three?”

Owl sat with Twilight a long while, hours passing by his notice, trading turns on the board as one game turned into two, then into several. They shared jokes and stories as they played, giving the other an idea of their past.

Owl spoke of his experiences in training, fighting for a place in the pilots program. He described to her his old high school, and the people he’d studied with.

Twilight in turn told him of her early years, of the technicians feeding her vast libraries of books and information, trying to develop her into exactly what they wanted. Owl found himself enraptured as she described her experiences with Bop, the AI that ran the base’s diagnostics. He’d heard of the famous experiments, of course, but had never spoken to anyone who’d actually met the eccentric intelligence.

As time meandered on, Owl found his eyelids growing heavy, until he eventually dozed off with his head resting on the smooth metal table.

The dark haired woman watched in anticipation as the last plate was welded to the Mech before her, completing the first step in her lifelong dream. She turned to the mousy scientist beside her.

“Isn’t is beautiful, Dr. Clover? Doesn’t the sight of it just make your heart spin?” she clasped her hands against her chest like a lovesick teenager.

“P-p-perhaps it’s j-j-just me, but it s-s-seems less b-b-beautiful and m-m-more frightening, what with all th-th-the spikes and s-s-such.” Clover had learned long ago that honesty was usually the best policy when dealing with his captor. She had an uncanny knack for rooting out deception.

“Perhaps to you, but to me, how can the creation that will punish the Equestrian bastards for their crimes be anything less than beautiful?” Venom dripped from her voice as her hands clenched in rage. “Let them see only its shell, its carapace. Let them feel fear at the sight of it. They deserve nothing more than a violent death for slaughtering our people.”

After a moment, she regains control, letting out a deep sigh as her body relaxes. “Start uploading the AI and interface, then begin prepping the drones for link. I want to be ready by the end of the day. No excuses!”

Chapter 4: Pilots

Tank was awoken by a rapid knocking on his room’s heavy steel door. Grumbling, he shifted his massive six-foot-three frame out of bed, making his way to the keypad before punching in the code. The door slid open to reveal the diminutive frame of the base’s most excitable, and annoying, pilot, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“You said yesterday you’d spar with me tomorrow, and now it’s tomorrow! Let’s go!” Angel’s enthusiasm was not so welcome to Tank’s sleep-fogged mind. Yawning, he closed the door, letting it slide shut with a pneumatic hiss in the smaller pilot’s face.

Tank turned, making his way back to bed for another hour of sleep. After all, he didn’t have any official training exercises for a good three hours. Before he’d gotten three steps away, the loud, repetitive knocking resumed. Tank rolled his eyes: when Angel wanted something, you either gave it to him, or were driven insane by his pestering. Changing course, he made his way to his closet to get changed.

A few minutes later, Angel’s knocking finally stopped as the door slid open again, allowing Tank to step into the hall, having traded in his nightwear for a tank top and sweatpants. “Breakfast first.”

Angel shook his head violently. “You said we’d train, not get breakfast. Breakfast is boring.”

Tank let out a sigh. “Fine.”

With that, Angel shot off like a rocket, racing down the hall towards the weight room provided for pilots, leaving Tank to slowly make his way down the same route. The larger pilot rolled his eyes in annoyance: Angel rarely thought anything through. He’d probably be worn out before they even began. Sure enough, it wasn’t too long before Tank found his fellow pilot, panting and leaning heavily against a wall a few corridors down.

“This is what happens when you sprint everywhere, Angel. If you’re going to be fighting, slow and steady will probably get you there in better shape for the match.” Tank didn’t hesitate as he passed by. The smaller pilot really did need to learn some restraint.

Tank opened the door as he had a thousand times before. To his surprise, despite the early hour, the weight room was already occupied.

Hanging from a pull-up bar was Gummy, easily identifiable by his buzzed hair and creepily unblinking purple eyes. His slight frame and rounder face revealed his age of a mere sixteen, while his muscular frame spoke to many years of training. A large scar on Gummy’s neck stood out against his grey tank top, a sign of some past trauma, though whether from an early mission, a training accident, or some part of his childhood life, Tank didn’t know. He’d always wanted to ask about it, but in the three months he’d been stationed here, the young pilot had never deigned to respond to his casual greetings or attempts to initiate a conversation.

Something about Gummy bothered Tank, and it took him a moment to determine what. It was his actions, or rather, a lack thereof. While he was indeed hanging from a pull-up bar, that was all he was doing: hanging. No strain to lift his chest to the bar, no bending or flexing of joints. He just hung there, feet dangling off the floor, staring at the room in silence. If it had been anyone else, Tank probably would have been worried, but then, Gummy had always been an odd duck.

A series of grunts drew Tanks attention to the other side of the room, where a woman, brown hair tied up in a ponytail, pounded against a heavy training bag, throwing technique aside in favour of what appeared to be sheer force. Frowning at the improper technique, Tank made his way over to her, trying to get a better angle of her form so he could figure out what she was trying to accomplish. As he got closer, it became increasingly obvious she wasn’t training, she was taking her frustrations out on the punching bag.

Suddenly, with a roar, she lashed out with her right fist, sending the bag flying away from her. As if flew, the chain went taut, pulling the bag swinging back towards her. She reared back, raising her left fist for another devastating punch. As she did, Tank stepped in, bracing his shoulder against the heavy weight and shifting his stance, slowing the momentum. Her fist flew just under his arm, hitting the bag and nearly sending it from his grasp. He tightened his grip, slowing the bag till it barely swung, before releasing it.

“What the hell are you doing?” The low, growling from behind him dripped with anger, sending a shiver up his spine. He turned to find a dark expression, glaring at him with undiluted rage. He immediately felt every bit of confidence dissipate under that piercing gaze.

“Well, you hit the bag too hard. If you’d hit it again with it moving at that speed, you could have been hurt…” His tall stature didn’t keep him from feeling smaller than a mouse. All he wanted to do was crawl away and hide, but there was a distinct lack of hiding places in the utilitarian space.

Her eyes somehow narrowed even further. She lashed out, her right fist flying so quickly he didn’t even see it until is had crashed into his face, sending him reeling. Tank recovered quickly, but doubled over as her knee planted itself in his stomach, causing his breath to leave him.

She didn’t stop there. She brought up both hands, clasping both hands together into a heavy fist before bringing it down on his back, driving him to the floor. As he lay gasping on the ground, she knelt down by his head, turning it so he looked straight into her eyes.

“I don’t need you to protect me.” The stench of alcohol blasted his face, carried by her breath as she literally looked down at him.

With that, she stood, turned, and walked away. As Tank watched, she made her way towards the door. Just before she left, she stopped, reached into her jean jacket, pulling out a canteen. She deftly popped the cap and took a long swig of the contents, before returning the container to its pocket and continuing on her path.

Tank rolled over onto his back, staring up at the honestly rather bland ceiling while he tried to catch his breath. A couple minutes passed, before suddenly his view of the roof was blocked by a familiar face.

“Need a hand?” Angle reached down, hand outstretched in an offer of help.

Clasping the smaller man’s hand, Tank pulled, but only succeeded in bringing Angel down on top of him. Shrugging the other pilot aside, he rolled back onto his stomach before climbing his way back to standing. Turning, he saw his companion had done the same, and was now dusting himself off.

“So, do I even want to know how you ended up on the ground?” Angel’s voice seemed casual, but the question itself froze Tank in his tracks. His cheeks flushed a little at the memory as he answered.

“A woman was hitting the punching bag improperly. I stepped in to keep her from hurting herself, and she beat me to a pulp.” Once again Tank felt the desire to find some nice, quiet space and hide. He expected Angel to laugh at his predicament, and was not disappointed.

Once Angel had cleared his system of amusement, his demeanour shifted to one unexpectedly more serious. “Brunette, hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing a jean jacket?”

Tank was caught off guard. Since they’d been assigned here three months ago, he’d made it a point to try to get to know as many people as possible, though clearly he’d not met everyone quite yet. What he’d never expected was Angel to be familiar with someone he wasn’t, as the smaller pilot tended to hang out at clubs and parties around town as opposed to the base when not running drills.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“That was Winona. Showed up about a week ago as a new pilot. Does not like people.” Angel shrugged. “She’s definitely hot though.”

Tank sighed internally, finally figuring out how Angel knew her. “You asked her out when she showed up, didn’t you.”

Angel face broke into a grin. “Mayyyybe.”

Tank rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, she shot you down.”

“Forcefully. But hey, you win some, you lose some, eh?” Angel bumped hit elbow into Tank’s side, setting off a fresh wave of pain.

Groaning, Tank’s clutched his side, staggering his way over to one of the bench presses and taking a seat, waiting for the pain to pass. Angel followed, a concerned expression on his face. “You okay?”

“Yeah. She hit me pretty hard, though. I don’t think I’ll be doing any exercise today.” Tank gently massaged his aching gut, waiting for it to subside.

Angel’s eyes widened. “Does that mean no sparring?”

Tank rolled his eyes. Of course Angel would be more worried about beating him. He’d been practically obsessed with the idea ever since Tank had scored higher on his physicals on his entrance exams. Despite his...enthusiasm, he’d still never beaten Tank in any of their many matches since. Honestly, Tank sometimes was in awe at the smaller pilots sheer stubbornness in continuing to challenge him. “Well, I’m certainly not going to be your opponent, so unless you can find another partner, then you’re out of luck.”

Angel’s head swiveled from side to side, beforequickly locking on the sole other occupant of the room. “What about him?” Angel pointed directly at Gummy, who still hung from his bar, having not moved through the duration of Tank’s beating.

Tank was surprised at his immediate change in focus. He’d rather assumed the point of Angel wanting to spar was to beat him, but apparently any partner would do today. “I mean, I guess you could, but you’d need to ask him first, and even then I wouldn’t—”

“OkayThanksBye!” Angel cut off Tank’s concerns, rushing over to see if his prospective opponent would be interested in a match.

Tank sighed, settling back to watch the show. Despite Gummy’s age and appearance, he was actually one of the most experienced pilots on base, having run several missions over his six years of service. These were facts Angel, who didn’t really care about anyone he didn’t think could propel his reputation, probably didn’t know. Facts that Tank knew he’d learn rather swiftly...and painfully.

Angel’s excitement was bolstered by the chance to spar. He might not be Tank, but any sparring was a chance to improve, even if he just crushed his opponent right out of the gate. After all, his opponent couldn’t be that strong. He was just a shrimp, and a kid at that!

Marching up to Gummy, Angel immediately began his pitch. “Hey, would you be interested in…” He trailed off as he realized Gummy wasn’t looking at him. In fact, he’d not moved at all, seemingly unaware he was being addressed by another being.

Angel looked quizzically back at Tank, looking for some explanation for being ignored. Tank’s response was a simple shrug, looking just at bewildered at the situation as Angel felt. He tried again, snapping his fingers right in front of the other pilot’s unblinking purple eyes. Nothing.

What the hell is wrong with this guy?

One last try. Inhaling, he brought his face right up into Gummy’s, yelling, “HEY, YOU!”

“Gummy.” Tanks voice floated over his shoulder. Confusedly, Angel turned, staring back at the much larger pilot, who elaborated: “His name is Gummy.”

“Gummy? Odd name…” Angel felt a tapping on his shoulder. Turning he found himself face to face with those large, piercing purple eyes. Startled, he took step back, giving himself a modicum of personal space.

“Woah, uh...Gummy?” Angel wrangled his response under control, quick as a bunny. Gummy just stared at him, unblinking. “Are you okay?” The smaller pilot finally made a response, nodding his head once in affirmation.

Thoroughly confused, but still interested in making the kid his opponent, Angel pushed forwards. “Would you mind sparring with me?”

Gummy waved his hand generally in Tanks direction, cocking his head to the left. Following the other pilot’s gesture, Angel figured Gummy was probably asking why he didn’t spar with Tank.

“He got hurt earlier, so he can’t spar today. Would you be interested?” Angel explained, tucking his hands into his pockets. If he was facing Tank, he’d probably be berated for ‘showing off’ and ‘being cocky’, but he couldn’t help feeling smug in the face of his inevitable victory against the pipsqueak. Assuming the kid accepted.

Gummy seemed to disappear into his own mind again, just standing, unmoving, while Angel waited for a response. After an uncomfortably long pause, he nodded, then walked off in the direction on the padded mats set out for wrestling and general fighting.

Following the other pilot, Angel shed his jacket, hanging it haphazardly on a weight machine as he too stepped onto the mats. Both pilots found opposite corners of the ‘ring’, shifting to their preferred stances.

A dozen or so second passed, with neither pilot making a move. Angel shifted uncomfortably as he waited for some sign the match had started. As time passed, that he felt more and more nervous energy build up, until finally he couldn’t take any more.

“BEGIN!” He cried, rushing his opponent, intent on finishing him with the first blow. Gummy made no attempt to evade, simply waiting there as Angel pushed. Once he’d gotten close enough, he leapt at the purple-eyed pilot, rearing his fist back.

I win.

Thirty seconds later, Angel woke up, back planted firmly to the mat and Gummy standing over him, still staring with those unblinking purple eyes. Shaking off a layer of dazed confusion, Angel tried to recall how he’d ended up losing, but all he could remember were flashes: Gummy’s face suddenly next to his fist instead of struck by it, the sudden sensation of someone holding his arm, then...nothing.

A new presence loomed behind Gummy as Tank made his way over. Shaking his head, Tank bent down, reaching out to Angel with an outstretched hand. Angel gladly took it, feeling himself hoisted to his feet by the other pilot’s immense strength. As his legs took the whole weight of his body again, Angel straightened, looking Gummy directly in the eyes.

“Thank you for the match.” Despite his best efforts, a hint of venom crept into his voice.

Gummy nodded, seemingly oblivious to the negative tone. He turned and made his way to the door, navigating the maze of exercise equipment with an ease that spoke to familiarity.

A soft chuckling drifted over Angel’s shoulder. He turned to his companion, meeting Tank’s amused eyes with an annoyed glare. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you.”

Tank’s voice held a touch of his earlier mirth as he explained. “Gummy’s been a pilot for six years now. He’s got far more training and experience than you or I, so yes, I figured you’d lose. I did try to warn you.”

Intrigued by Tank’s description, Angel found his eyes drawn to the victor. Watching Gummy make his way out of the weight room, the excitable pilot couldn’t help but wonder what kind of mysterious things ran through the young pilot’s mind.

I wonder what’s on the menu at the cafeteria today, Gummy wondered.

Angel’s attention was brought back by a sudden lack of presence beside him. Tank had gotten up, and was following Gummy’s path to the door. Angel started after him, hurrying his way until he was once again within talking distance. “Whoah, whoah, whoah, where are you going? We can still train!”

Tank didn’t slow his pace one iota. “I need food. I only came along because I figured you’d need a sparring partner, but with that no longer on the table, the cafeteria is calling my name.”

Angel’s cheeks warmed as a loud rumble emanated from his gut, forcing his attention to a gnawing emptiness in his stomach.

Tank abruptly stopped, causing Angel to do the same, before facing the other pilot. “You’re welcome to join me.” He turned and continued his path without waiting for an answer.

Angel hesitated a moment, considering his options, before a fresh wave of pain overwhelmed him. He hurried after his friend, calling out “Fine, but you’re paying!”

Winona stalked through the halls towards her room in the pilots' on-site barrackss. Every now and then, a group of technicians would cross her path, skittishly making as much room and possible between themselves and her within seconds of seeing her scowling expression.

Who the hell does that guy think he is? I don’t need to be babied, I know how to hit a punching bag! Should have hit him harder. An asshole like that, not like anyone would care. I’m willing to bet if he knew about me being...no, don’t even think it! I hate him, such an asshole.

She barely paused as she found her door, still smooth and unblemished by any markings like the ones that adorned nearly every other door in the hall. Swiping her badge, she stormed into the small, undecorated space, thoughts growing darker with solitude.

Fucking shit, I’d bet everyone here is like that. Fuck it, I’ll beat sense into everyone who tries to fucking jerk me around on a leash! Fucking fuck FUCK-

A sharp stab of pain in her palms startled her from her thought process. Winona raised her hands, turning them over to find her fingernails had broken the skin, sending thin trickles of blood creeping down her wrists.

Stunned, she stared at her hands, feeling at a loss as the consequences of her actions impacted her. Not for the first time, she felt guilt at her anger, at the pain she forced on others.

Why? Why can I never learn?

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as her heart constricted, sending a spike of pain, one far worse that the waves radiating from her palms, straight into her heart. She broke, the rage twisting itself into a perversion of itself. Sadness and pain flooded her mind, drowning out every thought but one until she was clutching her head in her hands in a futile attempt to drive away the anguish.

Make it stop! Make ME stop!

Through tear filled eyes, she searched around in her jacket pocket for her flask, and the pain-ending serum it contained. Her fingers found the familiar form of the metal container after a moment, and she swiftly and expertly popped the lid open, tossing her head back as she felt the strong liquor burn its way to her stomach. Every gulped mouthful muted her emotions, her pain, until the sharp daggers piercing her heard dulled, and her thoughts were drowned in alcohol.

The flask, now empty, drops to the floor as Winona’s muscles betray her, surrendering her weight and sending her ungracefully to the floor. Her eyes stared dully at the steel wall of her room as she lay on the floor, alone with her thoughts. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing that the alcohol would make, no, let her forget her past, her identity, her flaws and her family.

Yet, as she lay on the floor in a drunken fugue, she knew she never could.

Opal’s breath steamed over the plated shell of her Mech, Rarity, giving a slight dampness to the white metal-and-glass armor that was quickly wiped away by a polishing cloth, leaving behind a glistening sheen. Smiling, her toned frame slid along to the next panel, a bandana tied around her forehead keeping the movement from shifting her chin-length white hair from drifting into her field of view. Reaching into the toolbelt around her waist, she again pulled out the cleaner from its pouch, spritzing a fine mist onto the plate.

As she went to wipe it down with the chemical-drenched cloth, she frowned as the metal shifted under her hands. Applying pressure and moving her hands around, she found she could move the panel ever so slightly. A cursory inspection revealed the issue: one of the securing screws had loosened, allowing the plate to slide. An easy fix, all things told.

“Hey, Rarity, I found a loose plate back here. Gonna tighten it up, okay?”

Rarity’s response was brief. “Please do, darling. Whatever you feel is necessary.”

Opal figured she was distracted, probably with another outfit. Not unusual, and it’s not like they always talked while she worked. Just most of the time.

Still, she had her answer. Stowing her cleaning supplies, she went to retrieve her multi-purpose screwdriver from a holster on her right side.

Unfortunately, in her haste to fix the screw, she’d neglected to wipe the cleaner from her hands, and the slippery liquid caused her to drop the tool as soon as she had it in hand. Her eyes tracked the screwdriver as it fell, wincing as it bounced off a couple of Rarity’s leg plates before colliding with the concrete floor with a dull clatter.

Those will be a pain to buff out.

Sighing, she checked her harness buckles. All secured. She disengaged the lock holding her suspended, carefully restricting the flow of the rope as she rappelled down to collect her tool. Her steel toed work shoes touched down with a tap-tap as she reached the ground. Unbuckling herself, she immediately set out to collect her errant tool.

However, when she reached the space she knew it had landed, there was no screwdriver to be seen. She ran her hand over one of the dents, making sure the whole event wasn’t the product of her admittedly tired brain, before stooping over to check if it had somehow rolled elsewhere.

“Looking for something?” A familiar voice reached over her shoulder.

Turning, Opal found her aunt, holding up the missing screwdriver. “Aunt Lauren! It’s good to see you.”

“Sorry I haven’t been by much lately. Things have been a bit hectic, what with Twilight needing so many repairs.” The head mechanic handed her pilot niece beck the tool, who quickly snatched it away, squirreling it back into her belt.

Opal pushed past her aunt as she made her way back to the harness, intent on going up and fixing the loose plate before buffing out those dents, only to stop as she felt a hand on her shoulder. Knowing her aunt was aware of her general dislike of small talk, she turned, expecting something serious. But even she was not prepared for what her aunt said next.

“Aren’t you late for a training session? I thought Colonel Larson had something planned for the on site pilots at two.”

Panicked, Opal rolled over her wrist to check her watch, only to find it missing. Right. She’d taken it off so it wouldn’t scratch Rarity when she polished. It took her a moment to track it down among the many pockets of her tool belt, but she eventually managed to get it back on her wrist. Two-oh-four. She was late.

She started with a bolt, packing up her tools and beginning to clear the path for her Mech to exit the hangar. “Sorry, Rarity, I’ll have to buff those dents out later.”

“It’s no problem, darling. You do quite enough for me already. I do wish you’d let me pay you back in some way, though.”

Opal rolled her eyes as she unhooked the rappelling harness from Rarity’s chassis. “I keep telling you, I don’t need a new dress. It’d just get in the way when I fix you up.”

“Still, a pair of overalls over a t-shirt is just so drab. At least let me make you a new bandana?”

That was an offer Opal actually considered. Her current simple white bandana was pretty old, and definitely showed its age. A new one would be nice.

“Fine, but nothing too frilly, okay? It needs to be functional.” She found herself saying as she climbed up the ladder to the walkway suspended over the hangar.

“Ooh, you won’t regret this!” Opal chuckled as her voice shifted so high it nearly cracked. Her AI’s reactions would always confuse her, but it still brought a warm feeling to know she’d made Rarity happy.

Climbing into the cockpit, she settled in as she had many times before. Settling in, she checked to make sure her aunt had cleared the hanger before piloting Rarity over to the tunnel that led to the appropriate training arena. Pushing the controls, she ran Rarity down the tunnel.

Opal emerged to bright, harsh light. As her eyes adjusted, she found the other pilots, already in their Mechs, waiting impatiently for her arrival. She sheepishly took her place at the end of the makeshift semicircle, linking up to the shared comm network. Her ears were immediately bombarded with conversation, sending her reeling from the unwanted noise.

“I mean, who puts onions on a hamburger? It’s a travesty, I tell you! Onions have no place in any food, much less a hamburger!”

“Calm down, it’s just an onion.”

“JUST an onion? Hmph. Coming from someone who’s food didn’t have onion in it, that doesn’t mean much.”

“I had a cherry pie. Cherry pies don’t usually have onions. Hamburgers, on the other hand…”

She unfortunately recognized the voices. Angel and Tank, bickering again. Reaching down to her screen, she pulled up audio controls for the comms. Her eyes glanced down the list, searching for the right names. Finding them, she pressed the mute button next to each of ‘Rainbow Dash(Tank Schell)’ and ‘Fluttershy(Angel Kouneli), letting out a relieved sigh as the noise cut off.

As she went to close the menu, she realized something was off. There was an extra name. ‘Applejack(Winona Hunter)’ was certainly one she didn’t know. Opal scanned down the line, finding an unfamiliar, massive sized orange Mech with a three apple mark, the unusual mark a sign of her aunt’s design skills. A new pilot? Whatever the case, she wasn’t being loud, so—

“WOULD THE TWO OF YOU JUST SHUT UP!” An unfamiliar voice slurred, presumably at the two bickering pilots. Rolling her eyes, Opal muted her as well, leaving the only two channels open the one with Gummy and the Command channel.

Gummy she wasn’t worried about, some old injuries had left him mute so her only potential issue was his AI, Pinkie Pie. However, while Pinkie was outgoing and boisterous, she usually directed that back at her pilot, so Opal doubted she’d hear anything from there.

The Command channel crackled, bringing through Larson’s voice. “Alright, now that little miss tardy has arrived, we can begin. Standard team match. Live fire exercise, so try not to hurt anyone or do too much damage. Opal and Gummy will face Winona, Tank, and Angel. Take your sides.”

Opal wasn’t too surprised, as a three vs two match would only really be fair if it was the two most experienced versus the three newer pilots. Both teams quickly found positions on opposite sides of the arena and waited for the match to begin.

“Alright, beginning in three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

And then the wall exploded inwards, letting in a swarm of black-shelled, insectlike machines that charged the Mechs, aiming to kill.