Work Text:
There was a crash. A bang. A thud. A high velocity shell ripping through plated armour, lodging itself in the core of a war machine. A spark, flying through the air towards the now leaking fuel line. A roaring inferno consumed it all. Its pilot gasped, the very air forced out of her lungs by the shockwave, as shrapnel seared into her legs and a harsh, head splitting static filled the mind. She was blind and deaf in the now dark cockpit, cooking alive while bleeding internally. Which would kill her first, she could only guess. God it's hot in her e. And then it got hotter and hotter, until she was screaming out. Screaming into the void for mercy, for help, for death.
Major Kiara Cooper could do nothing but listen. Her own mech, Dhampir , was disabled, 0.3 kilometres away face down in a creek. She was an ace. A triple ace in fact. She’d fought and bled and killed more than anyone else in the regiment. So why now was it so painful to hear a pilot die? The question rolled around in her skull, rattling her brain for what felt like hours. Because the woman in the burning, smoldering wreck is my daughter.
She’d been so proud when Lin had been accepted into the local defence college. Slightly scared when she chose to be a mech pilot, but still proud. The Coopers were brave soldiers for generations, ever since the Empire first pushed out from that irradiated rock of legend. Not that easy to make barrels without wood, naturally. Her father left over it. Died after drinking himself half to death and walking into the road. Her aunt was proud at least. Even bought her a new jacket to wear over that boring grey-green army uniform. Pilots got special treatment as long as they kept winning.
It’s still… in her locker. I should send it home. Oh, there’s no one left. What felt like her dying thoughts were a mix of grief and acceptance. It was odd for a last moment, worrying about what would happen to a simple leather jacket. It kept her mind away from the screams, slowly dying out as the rebel mech used up the rest of its flamethrower fuel. It was ineffective as an anti tank weapon. You couldn’t suck the air out like you could with infantry or civilians stuck in a cave. But it was cruel. And the rebels loved their cruel, handmade mechs. Her daughter was cooked alive. She boiled. The climate controlled cockpit broke with the explosion. It was too thick for the flames to melt, but the small machine gun stuck to the side? The one with some bitch rebel fighter had turned into a turret? That punched through the weakened armour. That let drops of fuel trickle in. And napalm sticks to everything. It washed away her nose art in a fiery bath. It caused Lin to sweat every last drop of moisture. For her flesh to roast.
Kiara’s daughter, the last thing in this god-damned universe that mattered to her, was killed in one of the most gruesome ways imaginable and all she could do was listen .
***
‘Major, I’m sorry for your loss. But… the regiment needs you back in action. You’re a senior office for fucks’ sake. You can’t just stop!’ Kiara sighed, she knew this would happen. Psych cases aren’t treated very well on the front, especially the officers. They were the ladies and gentlemen of the elite. Supposed to weather the storm. ‘Sir. Brigadier. That was my daughter. You can’t expect me to just go out as normal!’
‘I expect you to react as any officer would, losing one of their troops. I understand, and I’m willing to give you a few days to grieve. But this is a bloody way, and thousands more daughters will be lost. Think of how many you can save by leading from the front. Think of what Lin would-’
‘LIN WOULD WANT TO BE ALIVE, WITH ME, AWAY FROM THIS INFERNAL CAMPAIGN!’ She shouted, screamed, cried it out. God it felt good. This pompous ass thought he could use her death like that. The nerve.
‘I see. I will… excuse this incident as a result of battlefield fatigue. Get some rest.’ There was a closed casket funeral later that day. It was small, with only a few charred remains recovered.
***
The next few months were a blur. Performance dipped, pilots died, and Major Cooper found herself in the bottle, night after night. She’d just gotten back from a mission, taking out anger on those damn rebels wherever she found them. Just recently they’d hit a reb hospital, and Kiara herself was the one to take out its protecting mech. The memories flowed freely with the drink. It was dry, the sun blazing down. The scrap mining rig was tough, but nothing her customised Doru couldn’t take. It lunged at her, heated lance slicing an arm while Dhampir ’s gun loosed into its chest. It stumbled backwards, fluid leaking like black blood while jumping around. She turned, tackled it, and beat what remained of the mech’s torso. It crumpled easily. The only other forces of note were the AT infantry and some APCs. They were easy pickings for the Imperial infantry moving behind, cut down where they stood. It was the first mission since Lin left, and yet there was only one rebel mech to take out her fury on. She stomped it again and again into the earth. If Lin had a closed casket, so would every rebel she ever met. She remembered her kid’s smile as she turned the cockpit into a bloody pulp. Suddenly, she was back in her room, bottle in hand. She grabbed a syrette “acquired” from her medkit.
Booze, morphine, anything to make her forget. To get her mind to erase the losses. Eradicate the dead. Wipe away her daughter’s smile- clink . She threw the bottle at the wall, shattering it against the footlocker. Her footlocker, dragged into Kiara’s room. Glass and whiskey coated the floor. Drunkenly shuffling her way over, Kiara ripped open the locker and grabbed that jacket. That nice, old jacket. It felt warm. It felt like Lin.
She was still clutching it, crying, when the strange woman knocked on the door. She was dressed all in black, a peaked cap sitting perfectly on her head, and a clean leather coat giving her the appearance of night. She smiled. ‘Major Cooper. Kiara, isn’t it?’ Kiara froze, recognising nothing but that characteristic black uniform. Intelligence. But usually they just wore dark fatigues, not this fancy getup. ‘Yes Sir? I wasn’t aware there was a mission soon. I’ll… I’ll clean up and be ready in 10-’ The woman in black moved forward, gently grabbing Kiara’s wrist and guiding her down onto the bed. ‘No, there’s no mission. I was informed of your… unique circumstances and thought I could help.’
‘Are you a psychiatrist as well as an analyst?’ She tried to joke. Why am I flirting with the officer intel lady? She slurred her own thoughts, clearly not able to hold her liquor even after all these nights. The strange, alluring lady simply smiled, and leaned in close. ‘Oh I see. No my dear, but I can help you fix everything. You feel guilt, you feel shame. You want it all to go away. Yes?’ Speechless, Kiara cried. She emptied her soul into the leather of the coat. And this officer handled the broken, hurt woman. She let her cry for an hour, whispering that it’ll all be ok. And when Kiara finally fell asleep, she left a business card on the table.
***
Waking up, Kiara held the jacket. It was leather, but now it somehow felt colder than that black coat. She picked up the card and gave it a search on the datanet. It appeared to be an Imperial Army Medical Service clinic, of sorts. A way to reevaluate trauma in a productive fashion. To move past it, or to control it of some kind. Fortunately, this planet was home to one of their new posts. She called, scheduled an appointment, and went AWOL. It was on the other end of the continent, in an unfamiliar city. But why the fuck would she care? The brass could just do the world a favour and shoot her. So she hopped aboard a transport helicopter and lied her way to the clinic.
***
They promised her the world. She’d impressed the doctors with how “well” she was coping, apparently. They called it “fascinating” while she called it pain. Trauma. A miserable existence. Then came the sledgehammer, hammering into her chest. ‘I’m sorry Major, but you are beyond traditional help.’ Those words, delivered so calmly and efficiently that she had to take several seconds to process, ruined her. Tears flowed, anger rose and fell, and fingernails dug into skin. ‘So, I’m just broken forever?’
The examination room door opened, revealing the woman from before. Her warm smile gone, her cold grey eyes washing over Kiara. ‘Doctor. Leave us.’
They were alone.
‘The doctors think you’re beyond help. But I know better.’ She pulled her pistol, and gave it to Kiara. ‘Go on. Fix yourself.’ Kiara put the pistol up to her head, and pulled the trigger.
Click
She was still crying when the empty gun slipped from her fingers. She was still crying when that warm smile came back, when it was followed by a stern hand and a slight slap to get her attention. This woman, the Handler, was offering her salvation. A cure. A way to continue service and rid herself of the trauma. It was either that or a discharge followed by years of odd jobs, poor housing, and drug use. She accepted and followed Handler to the backroom. ‘Get on the table and we’ll salvage what’s left of you.’
***
Wearing her daughter’s jacket and a worn, dirty pilot’s suit, the major laid down and was strapped into the machine. It was similar to the tech used to install the neural harnesses, the wiring and injections coming as a strange nostalgia for those endless surgeries and tests. Like she was a rookie again.The machine was a series of steel harnesses covering her body, her mouth and eyes and hands. Funeral rites, like the grave of a vampire. It was an appropriate irony, she thought. Handler brushed her hair and smiled as she died. Yes, a vampire.
***
The menial moved into the room mimicking the walk of a proper soldier, wearing a jacket whose meaning had almost entirely been lost to it, pilot wings freshly polished.
‘Unit 512, reporting from Salvage and Reeducation.'