Melthusa wakes up in a bed. It's a bad one- not very soft, the sheets are scratchy and low quality. Her head feels fuzzy, but in a bad way- a new feeling, for her. She sits up. The bed beneath her groans audibly as she does. Her body feels sluggish, bruised, and shaky. Then she realizes where she is.

A cell.

An awful chill crawls along her skin. Vague phantoms of past events drift through her head. She's an Imperial prisoner of war- a traitor guilty of high treason, no less. She hangs her head in her hands as a cold sense of yawning horror engulfs her from within. Her skin pulses with that peculiar unearthly feeling that washes over one in waves when they start to feel sick. She will not last a week in here, she knows that. She wants to believe that she'll never rat out her beloved Mane- the woman for whose sake she’s allowed herself to be put into this mess- but it's a fairy tale of a thought to feel that she won't. She knows it. The dull grey cell's spartan, unfurnished appearance and complete lack of windows (except a small barred one in the thick iron door) makes her feel like she’s in an evil hospital waiting for an excuse to cut her open.

She knows what goes on here better than a lot of prisoners probably do on day one. It's not much of course, the specifics are naturally classified specifically to keep them away from defectors like her, but she knows that it involves torture, psychological abuse, and probably drugs (presumably a copious amount of them, at that). She has family that helped invent some which are probably used for the process, but the specifics about those are also classified.

Although, she thinks to herself, it's probably only enemy aces who get that treatment. She's not an ace, she's not even really a pilot. She only has Emperor because she had been intended to follow in her military father's footsteps. She only...had...Emperor...

Melthusa retreats into the fetal position. The exact events leading up to her capture are hazy. Perhaps drugs have already crept into her brain and begun to liquify her recollection of state secrets. She knows that her beloved mech Emperor was destroyed, but cannot recall how exactly it was destroyed, or how she got taken into Imperial custody. She catches some traitorous part of herself wishing Mane was here before admonishing herself for even considering the thought. She didn't want both of them in prison, she wanted both of them free. Whatever awaits her, she can't let herself go and crumble like this. She needs to be strong.

Footsteps approach the door. It opens and a creepy masked individual enters wearing scrubs and some kind of vaguely bondage-adjacent hood. They place a tray on a small end table- the only furniture in the room besides the bed, as she only now realizes- and then silently turn to leave. Instinct propels Melthusa out of bed and to her feet, one hand outstretched towards the visitor's (a guard? Or something else?) shoulder.

She almost speaks but a combination of fear and shyness compels her to think better of it. Hand still tepidly outstretched, she freezes weakly in place as the hooded figure leaves. The door closes behind them with an imposing thud. Melthusa collapses backwards and falls into position sitting on her bed. How long had she been unconscious...? What have they done with her?

She looks around, trying to do some logic and science work as a distraction.There's no distinct light source in the cell yet somehow it's lit well enough to see everything. One might surmise the lighting is owed to the slot in the door, but if that’s it...then there'd just be a beam of light coming through it that only vaguely illuminated everything it didn't directly point at, right? And besides, the room doesn't brighten when it opens, so the hallway has to be about the same brightness as the room is. That means tracking days is out of the question.

She feels hungry, but not starved. That could imply she was only out cold for a couple of hours, but she also could've been drip-fed nutrients over a longer period. Or...it could also mean that she'd been drugged, or hypnotized, into forgetting that this isn't her first time waking up here. The sudden realization she knows for a fact that she can't even trust her own memories rocks her like a fist square to the jaw. If the horror she felt earlier resembled a yawning mouth this one strikes like a crocodile seizing her thick squishy stomach in its teeth.

She glances uncomfortably at the food. It is probably drugged. Almost certainly. But she has to eat...

She grips the terrible sheets of her shitty bed, tears rolling down her face. She's back in her girlfriend's machine. Is she begging it not to leave? Why? She’s inside it, it can’t leave her. She's being shocked as the machine is shorted out by some kind of electrical weapon. She is being battered unconscious by its safety foam.

Time passes. Hours? One hour? Half an hour? She has no way to tell. She knows that in circumstances like this the ability to tell time degrades but surely it hasn't been long enough for that, right? She looks out the panel in the door.

She sees nothing. A barren, stark white hallway. It almost feels more like a mental institution than an installation for torturing prisoners of war...insofar as those two things differed (intensity and choice of victim, mostly). She knows not to make noise. She can't let them know she's cracking so easily. But...

"Is anybody there!?" She cries in spite of herself. She hears footsteps.

God, no...!

---------

"GIVE HER BACK!" Mane yowls uselessly. Hot tears singe her face as they trickle down her cheeks like roiling lava. Her hands, balled around the controls of her stolen Imperial superweapon Cerberus, lunge this way and that as she clumsily wields its enormous fists. Much more standard-sized mecha dance about her, their rifles peppering her armor with shells far too small to deal meaningful damage. Regardless, somehow, each projectile that bounces off her mech seems to poke her somewhere in the outskirts of the brain. She's never been in a firefight so she doesn't realize it. "OUT OF MY WAY!"

She lurches her craft in the direction of the Tempestra. The small fries haranguing her are nothing significant. She needs their attack dog. She needs to-

Mane pictures herself on all fours. A throat crushed in her teeth. Hot, metallic blood pouring from the villainous thing that stole Melty from her. Her breaths deepen, she's gulping and heaving air in and out, breathing with only her mouth noisily and savagely.

She forces the picture out of her mind. Two mecha barely scramble out of her path as she sprints past them, smashing the Cerberus's huge boot-like feet against the earth one after another. The obscene pink abductor is so far away but if she can just close the distance enough to-

Missiles impact the heels of her mech. The Cerberus loses balance and topples. Mane is thrown side to side in the cockpit like she ran over a nasty curb. Her head flops about and her messy, dirty blonde hair goes with it. She feels all hope leaving her body. She should've just told the rebels about the factory. She...she should've...

Bladed melee weapons smash into the shoulders and back of her mecha. Mane yowls and forces the mech back to its feet only for three Imperials to launch themselves at her and topple her again with their sheer inertia. The impact jostles her.

She can hear her brother chastising her again.

Four mechanical dragon heads on long, tendril-like necks extend from the mech's back seeking to grapple her assailants. They nimbly escape and one even severs two of the heads with a large cleaver.

Coward. Blowhard.

All talk.

Convictions don't feed people. Don't stop bullets.

No discipline, no skill.

Anger is no substitute for a plan.

Mane flinches. He was right. She failed her girlfriend. If she doesn’t escape she’s going to...to...

Something in the cockpit stirs.

Orgism energy low. Synchronicity critically failing. Orgism...it's a terrible name, and she had told her father as such. But he had felt so proud of the awful attempt at a double meaning that he dubbed it such anyway.

She doesn't see or hear or feel as a long, silvery polished, chrome tendril flops and wriggles lower and lower behind her. She doesn't see as its curled length unfurls to help it reach down behind her. She's too busy scrambling to make the mech stand and making mistakes. The Imperial unit forms a circle, guns drawn. Two of them discard their rifles and whip out implements resembling the bastard child of a car jack and a scissor lift. Mane realizes with dawning horror they intend to force the cockpit open and kill her inside of it- or worse, take her alive.

She feels something huge, something smooth and cold, brushing up her back. She shivers from the waist up and screams in fright. She tries to turn to-

Straps lock her arms in place. A metal clamp like a mancatcher grabs her throat. More straps seize her shins and abdomen, trapping her. Panic overtakes her. The screen goes darker. WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING reads the dark yellow text of red boxes that open en masse, blotting out her field of view. She starts screaming.

"LET ME GO! LET ME FIGHT!" She begs, struggling uselessly against her bonds. She forgets what startled her initially, but not for long.

Synchronicity at zero. Energy reserves depleted. Do not struggle.

Do not struggle...!?

Something stabs her spine. Her head flops forward, spittle flying from her mouth which hangs open in shock. It- it fucking BURROWS. It's a thick, ice-cold, uncaring shaft. It spears so deep it reaches her spine.

"Aaawwgggrrr,,!" Mane forces out, horror swallowing her like the infinity of space. Something...touches her.

Not her body. Not her clothes, or her mech, or her neck. It touches...her.

It does not touch gently. Lifeblood oozes from the newly and roughly made orifice, creeping hot and wet down her back until it shortly turns cold and starts to dry. The foreign mass takes hold of her by her nerves- by her fucking BRAINSTEM. A pained yowl erupts from her body as something pillages her mind.

"Get ouuuut..!" She whines pathetically, sobbing and unable to move. She squeezes her eyes shut. This can't be happening! Her father was awful but, but he wouldn't, he, he, nooo! "Let go of me! Stop it! Get OUUUT!" Whatever it is, it gets angry. She feels the foreign invader burning her nerves as it goes. Her vision swims. She is not Mane.

She remembers being at a shooting range. Pointing arms too muscular and hairy to be hers. Pointing a gun at photographs.

Her sister. BANG!

Her father. BANG!

A woman she's never met. BANG!

Her mother. BANG!

Her. BANG!

Wait...when did...!? She remembers this! But...no, she was...that wasn't-!

She recalls killing with this very mech. Toppling a rebel stronghold with one of its weapons, sending its teeth as drones to hunt and vaporize infantry while it dueled their champion and won with ease. The sound of literally punching up through the cockpit, as if sliding a gargantuan blade up the spot under the ribcage of a man, echoes hideous as if she heard it herself. The sound of...of a man being converted into gore through kinetic force alone.

"STOP IT! STOP IT! I WANT OUT! GET IT OUT OF MEEEE!" Mane's body howled. The only reason she doesn't beg for her mother is because she's too high on combat adrenaline to remember the woman exists. She wails and sobs, the words melting into incoherent shrieks like a banshee.

How terribly annoying, something says from inside her nervous system. It echoes inside of her like a bassline at a concert, but thin and sharp and full of contempt. Where's your fire? Your venom? Your contempt?

A black shiny ooze bubbles in Mane's soul, defiling all that it touches. Her barriers dissolve, her sense of self collapses. She isn't Mane. It hurts. It hurts.

It hurts

It hur

It hurts

IT HURTS

ITHURTSITHURTSITHURTSITHURTS

DANGERDANGERDANGERDANGER

"AAAAAAAGH! OOHHGGHH..MMMMNNUOOOO," the socket containing Cerberus's implement moans in agony as it struggles to piece what it is back together. It remembers shooting at photos of family. It remembers boot camp. It remembers learning to pilot.

But those...but those...but...THOSE...!

"THIS ISN'T ME!" Shrieks some abandoned table scrap surrounded by the gurgling invader. It struggles in vain. Old emotions, impure ones, childish grudges that ought to be beneath it burn it as they roil up, pussing gas like so much bile and vomit. It remembers how much it hated having Melty taken away. It recalls that this happened a second time. It recalls all the fights from last time. It recalls a man, the mech's previous owner...

The mech.

The mech is...not...

The thing being fucked in its spine realizes it will be devoured entirely. Made into..

Into...

Into him. Into...a him.

No, no no no no, never!

It screams. It shoves memories out, its memories, it clings to them like hell and refuses to let go. It wrenches pieces of itself back out of the treacherous sludge.

She reforms. She is in pain. She hurts.

The invasive thing tries again but it changes on contact. The liquid runs thinner, it unfurls into something complex, like dozens of thin golden fingers splaying themselves across her nervous system.

They rub and massage, reaching into her in ways more insidious and bizarre than she can guard against. The thing in her neck twitches like a phallus, prompting another splash of blood from her neck. She feels it trickle down her back.

She is still screaming.

"Get out...get out...get out...ggghhu...GET! OUT!" Her identity recovered, she regains consciousness. The bonds are gone. She starts thrashing. She can't seem to stand from the cockpit. Pain explodes across her entire body.

WARNING: STABILIZATION IN PROGRESS flashes across the screen. Mane bucks. She feels something inside her. Trying to...pry her ribs open. She hears the squelching of metal being forced out of position.

She collapses in her seat, her chest heaving. Her eyes are dry. Her heart is empty. She's just...tired. Too tired to beg. Too tired for anger.

All at once the warnings stop and the screen lights back up. Two mecha stand over hers, trying to pry the chest-mouth open. She is going to-

"No." Suddenly an almost ethereally beautiful woman stands next to Mane. She's partially transparent and sparkly, like an angel. The long golden-blonde hair and pure white, elegant but slightly skimpy negligee she's wearing lend to that aesthetic. She drapes herself over Mane's back like a looming shadow, pressing her bosom where the machine is still wearing her neck like a hand puppet. She winces. "Just get up..." she coos in a voice almost tailor made to spur Mane's animal mind. The mech springs to life, shoving the two nearest enemies away and jumping to its feet somehow.

“IT SHOULDN'T BE THAT NIMBLE!”

Remarks one pilot as they back away.

"Kill them," the woman purrs in Mane's ears as if it's a sexy request and not a horrific necessity. Mane's face shakes with revulsion.

"Wh...but-"

"Shhhh shhh, theeeere there," the woman's voice coos in Mane's ear. Her heart betrays her by fluttering even as more tears somehow squeeze out from her dessicated eyes. She nuzzles the side of Mane's face with an obscene sort of affection as her hands slide sensually down Mane's hands to gently clasp over them. Her smile shines brightly with a sick parody of devotion. "I'm sorry, dear. I had no frame of reference for you, I was tuned to your brother. But he's dead now I see, so I can focus on you instead~" Mane is so wrapped up in this foul development she doesn't notice the woman's caress guiding her hands.

That is, until she hears a dry, screeching crunch.

A mech's torso collapses under the massive hands of her own. The metal is bent inwards like a crumpled car. The woman's hands are gently urging hers to go the extra mile. To...smash a human being into paste. Cerberus's hands shake as the controls quiver in her own.

"Where'd all that rage go?" The woman asks. Only now does Mane realize that the woman in the cockpit with her, somehow, is the machine. Bullets bounce off of the Cerberus’s thick armor but its bizarre qasi-avatar pays them no mind. She is still pushing on Mane's hands; gently, supportively, patiently. Mane shakes her head and winces terribly as another spurt of blood jumps from her partially butchered neck.

"Rage...?" Her mind is so scrambled. It's like all her memories melted into a disgusting runny egg. She can barely remember who she is. The angelic woman adjusts her stance and presses her face into the crook of Mane's neck in a corrupt imitation of love.

"They took Melty, remember? They took her from you," she purrs, the memories flooding back. Mane lacks the wherewithal to get angry, but her will to resist snaps. Blood sprays everywhere as she smashes the cockpit like a giant, juicy cockroach.

Like...a cockroach...

"Theeeere, there, see? It's not like murder. No no, not at alll," she purrs in a voice that gives Mane permission. That reassures her she did nothing wrong. "They're fighting for the Empire. They're not people."

"They..." Mane whimpers, her brain finally too fucked to resist. The metal thing inside her does...something. She feels her sympathetic nervous system being plucked like a harp. Adrenaline fills her but she's...still...tired.

The woman's soothing hands practically massage her as she guides Mane. The bleeding girl watches but doesn't process as Cerberus fires some kind of massive beam out of its mouth that plows into another mech. The stream of energy engulfs the machine’s entire torso, frying its innards and the pilot with them before fading way. Steam and green light radiate from the enemy contraption as it collapses to the ground.

“ALL FORCES, PULL BACK!” The metal insects begin to fall back. No...they took Melty...

The wolf mouth that dominates Cerberus’s torso flies open and lets loose a scarily wet, organic roar. The sound of an enraged beast bellows across the wide open plain as the black-armored stooges of the Empire scatter and take to a tactical retreat, once more peppering her with bullets. She feels them again, even more now with how tired she’s become. The maw on Cererus's chest slams shut just in time for missiles to crash into it. Her body writhes in pain as she suddenly realizes how badly she's physically exhausted. And how much blood has she lost...?

Wait. Blood. All at once Mane's body remembers how much pain it's in. Her vision goes smeared as she yowls again and again. The empire get away and Mane clutches uselessly at her aching face.

"What did you...fucking...DO TO ME!?"

"...." the woman fades away, denying her an answer. Mane suddenly recalls her comrade's bomb. She's unsure how far the bomb's yield will allow it to reach, or how much the explosion will need to taper off before the Cerberus can withstand it.

“I suggest escape. Enemy territory is fraught with danger,” her mech informs her as it finally retracts the metal spines from her body. Its voice is unmistakably feminine now, but definitely different from that of...

Mane retches. Her mind turns against her wishes, trained back on the assault. She feels queasy. She clutches her stomach. She bleeds from her neck.

“Mane. You need to move.”

Mane whimpers and obeys, too afraid of being punctured again to do anything else. The Cerberus turns away from the site of its creation and begins to hover, a green light pouring from its heels, shoulders, and lower back that evokes either fae magic or radiation. Mane throttles the accelerator and her mech lurches forward, taking flight like no craft of its sort ever should. She has no idea where she's going except beyond the bounds of the Imperial heartland. She is abandoning Melty...just like she forced Melty to abandon her family. Her life. Her...Emperor. One last squall of tears flows lazily from Mane bloodshot, unseeing eyes as she stares forward emptily.

------

Melthusa stumbles back into her cell. She still has no idea how long she's been there. The door shuts behind her. She collapses onto the bed and tries not to think about the fact she barely remembers whatever she's returning from, or about the fact she's succumbed and started to eat the definitely drugged food as soon as it gets left for her, or about the blurry visions that keep haunting her dreams but mysteriously vanish from her mind after they do…whatever they keep doing to her, out there. Her efforts don't get her anywhere, of course.

She remembers some things. Strange lights. Interrogation. More of the figures in the weird vaguely culty looking dog hoods. She recalls enough of the hallways to notice she's never seen another cell door- or that if she has, hers is the only one with a slat. She remembers that she's been treated oddly gently, but this brings cold comfort on account of how suspicious it seems. Surely, she feels, the other shoe is bound to drop. She had deliberately avoided learning about the rebels to the greatest degree she could, while she'd been with them. Perhaps that is paying off.

But what if it is?

Surely the empire wouldn't take kindly to wasting all this labor and all these resources on her. She lacks the skills, knowledge, or connections to be worth the time and effort brainwashing. She hopes so, anyway. The thought, optimistic as it is, proves to be the only hope she can hold on to. As such, she refuses to let go.

She sleeps. She has given up using sleep to count the time. She has too many foggy holes in her memories, and she's had sleeping gas pumped into her room without warning too many times to trust her count anyway. She wakes up feeling the same uncomfortable dread as always. Breakfast awaits, and she eats it.

She tries not to think about home and she tries not to think about Mane. She thinks about home. She thinks about Mane. She finishes eating. Her head feels runny. Drugs, presumably. Sometimes the food doesn't affect her. If there's a pattern she hasn't found it.

"Hello. May I come in?"

The voice shocks her for a few reasons. It's sweet, feminine and lilting. It sounds wildly out of place in this facility. It gently asks for permission. She looks through the slat and sees a girl with black hair. The visitor seems like she's missing something behind her eyes which alarms Melthusa. But she's standing straight and seemingly lacks a muzzle or brand or face tag or any of the other supposed designators of brainwashed Imperial attack dogs. In any case Melthusa knows better than to think the question is genuine.

"...yes?" She answers, hesitant. Some foggy part of her brain tells her she's in danger but its cries are muffled, and distant, and uselessly vague. The door opens and the visitor steps inside. It's a woman in normal clothing, with a pretty face and a soft smile. Melthusa's stomach stews with distrust, but she can't bring herself to feel as paranoid as she thinks she probably ought to. She...should be suspicious about this, right?

"Good morning, sweetie. Is the food to your liking?" The visitor asks in a dissonantly sweet tone. She looks Melthusa in the eyes. It takes half a second for Melthusa to realize the question is genuine. Is her brain...moving slower than usual?

"I...I s-suppose," Melthusa stammers out. She finds the question offputting but lacks the ability to put in words why that is. After her brain finishes grabbing awkwardly at an empty foggy sort of space (was she looking for answers...?), she gives up. It's the first time she's tried to have a normal conversation (wait...should she call this normal...?) since waking up in this facility. She suddenly realizes she's been underestimating the effects of the stay on her brain. It's so hazy and thinking feels so difficult and sluggish.

"You're a Benditti, right?" The visitor asks as she smiles in Melthusa's direction. It's weird, but Melthusa has a hard time figuring out whether the woman's eyes are actually looking at her or not. They just seem…too unfocused for that. Melthusa shouldn't trust it.

But she's smiling, some traitorous brain cell reminds her like a scheming advisor in a movie. She's not seen someone smiling face to face with her since she...no, since long before she woke up here.

No, no. No. She refuses to be won over so easily. She reminds herself that Mane is counting on her. She has to be a good girl for-

A chill splashes across her spine. Where'd that thought come from? She didn't...!

"Y-yes," Melthusa answered, forcing her mind onto the question she'd been asked. She doesn't have the privilege to take a moment unpacking everything, not right now.

"Nice to meet you, then. The guards have been gentle with you, right?" The woman asks. Her eyes temporarily shift to be less glassy, more grounded. She looks Melthusa over, as if looking for signs of abuse.

Melthusa smiles back nervously and answers, "as far as I know...yes."

"That's good, I'm glad," the woman sighs. Her posture adjusts slightly, changing to be more informal and relaxed. "I'm so sorry she isn't here. You deserve better than me after going through all this." Had she been...worried...?

Melthusa's heart flutters in her ribcage like the backstabbing whore that it is. She's always had a soft spot for displays of care from pretty girls but, not like this...right...? She can't...why can't she tell?

"Your face is scrunching up. You're not lying to save face are you?" The visitor asks, her body suddenly gliding closer. Much closer, actually. Melthusa backs away but is followed until she has her back against the bed. Blood flows to her face. "Or worse, to avoid being punished?" The care looks genuine. It sounds genuine. The alarm bells in her head seem so small and weak and distant compared to the promise of sincere and heartfelt compassion mere inches from her face...

"N-no," Melthusa stammers more, helpless to stop them from taking hold of her wrists. The woman starts to inspect her body delicately but thoroughly, eyes narrowing with focus as she slides her hands across Melthusa's arms and neck and face in search of any bruises. The Empire isn't like this, Melthusa tries to remind herself. This is a trick. It’s a scam. It's bait. That's the only reason the visitor is there: to present a lure for her. Like an angler fish. The woman's face sours slightly. "I just-" Melthusa starts, meaning to ask who "she" is.

"You're hiding something...may I see under your shirt?" She asks, although Melthusa knows it isn't actually a question. She nods her head yes against her better judgment and takes the hem of her-

"There's no need," the woman informs her and lifts Melthusa's shirt by its hem herself. It's only then that Melthusa realizes this woman is muscular. She has a wiry frame like a medium sized ambush predator, but her arms nevertheless look powerful and uncompromising. Melthusa likely has a weight advantage of twenty to forty pounds, yet she feels no doubt that those arms could kill her without a weapon.

"U-um," Melthusa sputters.

"Shhh, it's okay dear, you're in good hands," purrs a voice that sounds like a dream. The woman's other hand inspects Melthusa's stomach and ribs. Her face lightens back up as she does so. "I'm sorry my Handler couldn't take you immediately. There are...procedures, to this kind of thing. She is in hot water, unfortunately, after the incident..."

Handler.

Melthusa hates that word. She hates the way it's used in this context. She hates everything about this. Or...she...she does, right?

Is hate too strong a word?

"Shhh, shhhh," the woman coos directly in Melthusa's ear. The prisoner's face burns like the sun in summer. "I'm just here to make sure you've been taken care of adequately. The guards in these sorts of places can be so awful and uncivilized and you, you poor delicate thing," here the stranger pauses to stare lovingly straight into Melthusa's eyes, "and besides that. A citizen is a citizen, after all."

Melthusa almost feels glad to be a citizen of the Empire before catching herself. It's a privilege to be treated this way instead of the usual, but...hey, aren't a lot of the rebels citizens as well...?

"But...the others are-" she has to fight hard to keep the train of thought coherent. Were there aphrodisiacs in her food or something? Sedatives maybe?

"Well, yes, they're citizens too, but..." the woman begins. As she does she drops without warning into a squat and feels briefly at each of Melthusa's legs through her clothes. When nothing makes her flinch, the woman stands back up looking relieved. "Citizens of the Empire and citizens of the heartland aren't really the same, y'know?"

Melthusa furrows her brow but understands immediately. As a heartland citizen and the daughter of a fairly prominent Imperial scientist, she supposes that it's not surprising she faces more lenient consequences than a standard rebel might. Still, accepting that mercy tastes of poison to her.

It doesn't seem to hold up in the face of this visitor's smile and tone...she feels woozy.

"I...legally sp-speaking I, I suppose so, I guess...?" Melthusa stammers out, now completely on edge. It's apparent she overestimated how well she was holding up. Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape...? Laughable. She can't even tell if she'd started to crack after twelve hours or a year. She is essentially still a civilian, sure, untrained and unprepared, but surely she can still be capable of more than this?

"There, there, it's okay," the woman promises, her eyes still not all there but nevertheless glistening with desire to help. "I'm sorry, I know this must all be confusing. I'm sure you had plenty of reason to think you were doing the right thing. You seem sweet. Sicily said you were screaming and crying when you first woke up..." the woman's voice says that she cares, and her words say she cares, and Melthusa's mind tells her that the stranger cares, but something isn't adding up. Why can't she put her finger on- wait.

"S-Sicily?"

"The hound that rescued you," the woman says as if that isn't the most bizarre answer imagineable. "Apparently you started shrieking and flailing and you even smacked your head on the controls..." without warning the woman reaches up and into Melthusa's hair. The prisoner remains stone still with shock but her muscles rapidly tense. She has to force herself not to snarl- ONLY Mane gets to touch her hair, damn it. The hand clumsily roots around in her curly hair, which is tangled in places. The tugging hurts her but she doesn't dare move until the inspection is over. "It healed, good. I'm sure Sicily will be overjoyed. She was inconsolable the night she brought you home. She was so worried she hur-”

"Home?" Melthusa blurts out, against her better judgment. Her body shivers with emotion. "This isn't my home, it's a prison. Literally."

"True, true," the visitor remarks, looking confused by Melthusa's reaction. "But the empire IS. This is your home. You belong here. You deserve a nice sheltered life and she's working around the clock to get you one, so...have faith in her, okay?" It's all Melthusa can do not to punch this bitch. She doesn't want a sheltered life, or to owe this shitty "handler" a favor.

"If you really care," Melthusa wheezes out, her voice lacking all of what little fire burns in her head. On top of her usual skittishness, the dizzy haze in her head is making things even harder. "Then let me out."

"Sweetheart," whimpers the visitor with an intense pouting expression. The sight hurts Melthusa in spite of herself. "If I did that, you'd die! You'd be shot dead on sight, like a dog..." the tone of her voice changes when she says the last few words. It almost comes across like she's imagining Melthusa being shot...and that she genuinely thinks of Melthusa like an unknowing, innocent animal. The realization that probably IS exactly what's going on, churns Melthusa's stomach. The reality of her situation bowls her over, widening her eyes and putting an intense pallor over her face. She starts to sweat.

"I...what?"

"You're a prisoner, dear," the visitor reiterates patiently, her face contorted by concern. Yet again something about her eyes doesn't quite add up. It seems like she is actively defying some natural instinct to get frustrated. Or perhaps...it could also be that she considers being made to repeat herself unnatural. The visitor rewords her ideas, and seems to have trouble doing so. "You have to be here. For your safety. Until she finds a way to get you out. Which she will. Just have faith in her and everything will be okay. It always is." There's that she again.

"You..." suddenly Melthusa puts two and two together. "You used to be a rebel, didn't you?" The glassy eyes. The odd behavior. The unwavering loyalty to and belief in a single higher power, one which borders on the religious. The higher power in question being in fact a human being, one granted the title of handler...she feels stupid for taking this long. It seems to her that, no matter the degree of her drug-induced headspace, she should have put the pieces together faster than this. The visitor freezes, looking ashamed. The warmth vanishes from her instantly, replaced by a wet and bone-piercingly cold aura of shame. Her posture slumps. Her head falls.

"...yes. I am...sorry, miss. I know your family is of higher station than mine, but she only trusted us to check up on you..." the woman is struggling to keep from crying. Melthusa hears it in her voice, plain as day, clear as crystal. The visitor turns her face partially away from Melthusa and looks utterly devastated. "I thought...I thought I could help them. That if I fought the Empire I could help end its reign of terror over the rest of the world. I was...foolish." She gulps air down in an undignified hic. "I didn't realize how hopeless it was. The Empire will win. It always does. All my beautiful ideals, my silly ideas about free will and human spirit, none of it was ever worth fighting for...worth endangering myself and others. The Empire was always going to win, so fighting as a rebel only meant contributing to a longer war with more fighting and more deaths..." she squeezes her eyes tight as though to block out visions of her past battles. The twisted logic of her words is like an iron helix digging deep into Melthusa's sternum without rest or compromise.

If she doesn't escape she will become like that. This woman used to be a rebel, a combatant, a stalwart adversary of the Empire with training under her belt and tombstones dedicated to her enemies. None of her training or accomplishments or mental fortitude sufficed to protect her from being reduced to...this. In light of that, Melthusa's utter unmaking seems to become inevitable. Her mouth hangs open in horror.

"I...no..." Melthusa almost cries. "How can you...say that? The Empire is evil! It takes and eats and destroys, everything, it exploits the rest of the world, what could possibly have convinced you otherwise!?"

"...nothing," the broken husk of a woman admits. "You're right. It is evil. To the core. Irredeemable."

"Then...how...!?" Tears roll down Melthusa's face. Horrifically, her visitor flinches more from her tears than from her words. "How can you stand here and say you were wrong to oppose them?"

"The empire is cruel," the woman whimpers like a struck dog. She continues in hushed tones. "Everyone who opposes it is broken and either destroyed or repurposed. Rebels who die in combat are left to bleed out in the smell of oil and coolant, or have half their body crushed into paste. Wounded survivors suffer debilitating, painful injuries for the rest of their life or worse. The ones taken alive...they're reduced to guns. Living monuments dedicated to acts of unfathomable cruelty, mere things that exist solely to punish their brothers and sisters in arms for the sin of doing what's right." Her body trembles pathetically. "I saw the most effective way I could help to shorten the war and reduce rebel suffering. Take the skilled alive back to her, and when I must kill, do it as swiftly and painlessly as possible."

"No...that's...what are you talking about...!?" Melthusa warbles, eyes teary. "I...refuse...!"

The woman pulls Melthusa into a hug. Despite her smaller size, she is too strong for Melthusa to wriggle free. Her voice sounds tired as she whimpers into Melthusa's ear.

"I've been a bad girl...I failed to cheer you up," she sobs quietly. Melthusa's hair stands on her neck as she processes everything wrong with that sentence in these circumstances. But there's more. "And...we know you're bad with needles...so here, just breaaaathe..."

A cloth goes over her mouth, and she falls unconscious. As such, she doesn't notice the drugs being injected into her neck that stop her brain from finalizing memories it finds too upsetting. The last thing she sees as she scrambles to keep awake is the woman delicately tucking her into her bed.

-----------

Private Korloski is livid as she unbuckles the safety harness of her standard issue G1-AD Gladius and emerges from its cockpit. Her combat suit uniform has her sweaty underneath but she has bigger things on her mind. She watches as the gaudy Tempestra's cockpit flips open and its insufferable pilot pops out princess carrying some fucking rebel. After the mission they just survived it makes her want to kill the bitch- more than she already does by default. She clambers the rest of the way out of the cockpit and watches the obnoxious pilot come to a stop in front of its handler. The squad failed its mission and Sicily wound up killing most of the rebels before they could even get any mecha in their sights, so she's not looking forward to the mission report.

Korloski descends a ladder to the ground floor of the hangar. Receiving any amount of attention from the Bitch Princess, as the military often jeeringly refers to Sicily's handler behind her back, is a pain in the ass on a good day. She's ready to be chewed out and pissed off as she gets in line to stand at attention. Her squadmates line up next to her, and the air suggests they feel the same.

Sicily stops in front of a blonde woman in an officer's uniform and a white fur coat. The blonde woman, a twenty year old and former air forces pilot who comes from a family of laborers on one side and educated nobility with military ties on the other, is Sicily's handler. She has a face that's notably clean and unscarred even by the standards of other commanding nobility types.

"I brought back the target!" Squeaks Sicily in the obnoxious, bubblegum-esque squeal that all of this girl's (Korloski can only force herself to dignify the Bitch Princess with the label "woman" so much) pets are trained to speak in. Some of Korloski's squadmates snicker and giggle despite the circumstances, obviously eager to witness a hound get punished. Korloski doesn't relate- the only punishment she's interested in is seeing the original Sicily drawn and quartered, which will never happen for multiple reasons.

"I see that. Good job, Illy," says the handler, whose face is compressed slightly. She lacks the discipline or air of cold command emblematic of most handlers. Korloski's personal theory is that she got the position as a form of nepotism from her paternal grandfather, who had been an ace from some previous armed conflict. The Bitch Princess's hand reaches out to caress the captive's face as she looks the new prisoner over. It's always deeply frustrating watching the Bitch Princess do this kind of thing.

"I see you brought the target home unharmed. Good job. Her mother will be pleased." The Bitch Princess pets Sicily's head softly, eliciting an awful squealing noise that makes Korloski violently angry. She restrains herself though, and maintains a professional gaze straight forward. "As for the rest of you!" The Bitch Princess snarls, walking past the starry-eyed (and frankly, drugged looking) hound. Sicily stays still, cradling her unconscious captive in her arms almost like a baby. Her handler, in contrast, comes to a stop facing the others. She stands straight with her arms crossed behind her back as if that could possibly salvage her image.

"...."

None of the pilots speak. None turn their heads towards the speaker. They stand at attention and remain unmoving. It's procedure. They follow it.

"You failed to disarm the bombs, killed fewer than half the insurgents your hound did in the time it took her to both hunt and butcher at least twelve, and you failed to retrieve the experimental mech, prevent it from being stolen, destroy it, OR capture its hijacker. The rest of its production line, each one of a kind and irreplaceable, lie destroyed. Your performance today was a disgrace to the empire and further outcomes like that of this mission will get you court martialed or shot. Am. I. Clear?" The Princess' physical threats are about as scary as a lapdog but her connections and wealth mean she very well could be capable of getting the entire line of soldiers charged with treason.

"Yes, Sir!" The entire squad reply in unison. The handler scowls for a second but then continues.

"It sounds like your squad made an elective decision to let your hound handle the mission. I remind you that I could literally buy some of your families for less money than Sicily here cost the Empire. She is an asset. An expensive one.”

"Sir!" Piped up a new grunt. Korloski resists the urge to interject and stop them- she has family to feed. If pretending to be worth less than that lobotomized dog in human skin is what it takes to feed them, then she will do her best to act as a thespian performing in front of a bored tank crew and their vehicle. The handler freezes, face flashing a look of visceral disgust for half a second. The newbie doesn't see it. They will not be spared.

"You have something to say, do you?" The handler practically oozes liquid venom with the intensity of the hate saturating her words. "Spit it out then. Speak!" Korloski often hates being stuck doing work with this corrupt, pussy-footed, pansy-ass handler instead of the more competent and stone-faced ones. This quirk of hers- the weirdly personal emotional outbursts- is one of many reasons why.

"With all due respect, sir!" The pilot salutes, seeming to second guess themselves. It will not save them. The Bitch Princess narrows her eyes into a confrontational glare. "Isn't the purpose of the hounds to reduce Imperial casualties and crush rebel spirit? If they cost so much, are those returns really worth it?"

The handler extends a hand, her eyes darkened. Something about her changes and the temperature of the room practically drops by ten degrees from the intensity of her glare.

"Give me your gun." All stand stock still for a moment. Then, reluctantly, the pilot steps forward, unholsters their gun, and places it into the Bitch Princess' hand. The handler turns it over and inspects it. "This is a model R-17, an old piece mass produced with several minor flaws. Do you know why?"

"Because the flaws were too minor and changing the production line to fix them would cost too much to justify it," the now unarmed pilot responds. The air is thick with discomfort. Korloski wonders if the soldier has any friends yet, and if so whether they are already preparing to mourn.

"Indeed. This is a budget gun. You arm armies with a budget gun. Do you know why not every up and coming soldier gets a mech?"

"Because mecha are expensive," the pilot answers. "And if you can't buy your own, you have to prove that giving you one isn't a waste of money and time."

"Correct," the handler smiles softly. "That dog? The one you sent to confront a heavily armored mech alone? She proved that she was worth it time and again by killing bitches who weren't." The gun flips up. It discharges. The pilot falls back with a new hole in their head. "Bitches like you."