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epic wartime doomed yaoi WIP

5113: In the smog-choked sprawl of New Carthage, an uprising likened to the revolutionaries of worlds past is taking hold; the New Carthage Resistance Force (NCRF) has grown ever resentful of The Unions ever-expansive reach into the stars. The boiling-point was reached when the people of New Carthage were denounced by The Union for the practice of “Mass Old World Delusion” (practicing religion), whereas in the rest of the empire it was wholly forgotten and banished. The NCRF employed illegally modified construction mechs, repurposed for the defense of the newly emancipated city. These behemoths weren’t sleek or particularly sophisticated as they were over-clocked mining rigs, retrofitted for gladiatorial war. Nuclear powered scrap haulers like these were relics of the old government; used to subsist The Union... Now they’d be used to take it down.

NCRF:

Banner: a half star, half semi-circle sigil encompassed in a green circle, with 10 smaller stars surrounding the circle, representing the 10 years it took for the resistance to push back the previous government back in 5091, 22 years before The Union began its engagements.

New Carthage:

Population of 2.3 billion, sprawling in all directions of the planet Claruis. Originally ruled universally by one governmental body “Cirvus”, the NCRF resisted their colonists and pushed them out. Several other resistances sprouted up planet-wide, and the original government collapsed some time in 5091. Carthage-- being the largest city --took lead and became the new unifying governmental body and the capitol of the planet.

Angelina, call-sign Megami, is a genetically modified super soldier from The Union; she is a scrawny, underfed and overworked 6 ‘1 trans woman. She was originally born in Kistarius, a Union penal colony located on the outskirts of Andromeda. However, she’d been conditioned to forget her origins, since being stolen from her parents and her home was “potentially damaging to morale”, as her handler put it. She operates a Gerard-7 Spigot, a tanky yet hyper-maneuverable killing machine, with an acceptable degree of “personality bleed”.

Savanna, call-sign Vulture, is a washed-up mech jockey who once piloted one of the Unions’ Atlas-9 Reclaimers, but is now operating a twenty year old industrial rig known only as ‘Cataclysm’: named after its potentially cataclysmic reactor leaks. She escaped her pension with the Union after hopping a cargo vessel traveling cross-system onto a nearby body to Claruis, ‘Nauvis’. After hearing of the resistance in Carthage and its neighboring cities, she joined and, utilizing her unique experience as an ex-Atlas pilot, became pivotal in the war-effort, eventually freeing the city of its oppressors. She’d since become a citizen and a war hero, and her Cataclysm and she have been bonded ever since.

When the dropships arrive, they carry Megami and her Gerard straight into a Claruis forest, right outside New Carthage. The Union had set a special bounty for the clearing of the entire city, calling them “insurgent elements” (despite most of the population being civilian). The first pilot to retrieve the head of Captain Claymore would be rewarded with a ‘special gift’, straight from The Union’s high council. While never directly revealed to the pilots what exactly this grand surprise was; one thing was clear: They were to pursue Claymore, tear through flesh and blood, and attack anyone who stood in their way. That was, until, the Vulture met the Angel.

Part 1: The Bird

5113 - 22 years post-emancipation

The silence of the forest was a sacred blessing for those on the outskirts of New Carthage. Splattered patches of emerald-colored moss dot the ground, and boulders poke out from the soil, showing decades of history proudly on their backs. Wildlife skitters and calls, the wind whistles through the trees and winding streams hiss softly; the gentle voice of nature.

Paths snake to-and-fro, dancing together in locked steps through the dense shade. Dotting these paths are tourists... Birdwatchers and hikers and tired mothers and excited toddlers, all spilling out onto the trails during summer days like this. From above, you could mistake them for colonies of ants were it not for the shielding from the trees. Some are residents who furnish tiny wooded cabins and seek refuge from the bustling city. The midday strolls of the regulars are always punctuated with the friendly greetings of the strangers. How could one not smile surrounded by beauty this tangible?

Spears of trees frame a perfectly clear lake, where ducks, swans, geese and hundreds of tiny lilting insects lazily plot around. Further on, one could see a large river, gently cradling the outskirts of the forest and delineating the reserve from the urban sprawl. From a rural view like this, the city appeared like tendrils of stone and steel; from deep beneath the surface reaching far into the sky above, it erected itself to get closer to the stars. Tall buildings of seamless glass reflect the cloudless sky above, and from the right angle it might appear that there is no building there at all. Concrete pillars guide one’s eye to the heavens, and several government buildings peek between towering giants.

... wip

Part 2: Megami

The silence of the forest was as sacred as it was rare since the Arrival of the 14th Mechinges combat unit. Callsign Megami was tasked with picking apart the entrenched defenses of the NCRF, and preparing the offense against their foremost mechanized warframe factory.

She let out a pitiful yelp as another molten hot round ripped a hole through her abdomen, Megami buckling under its own weight, her fleshy body inside slumps in her command seat. If it weren’t for the instant cauterizing of her wound she’s sure she would’ve fainted from blood loss.

It was the seventh deployment of her Spigot class mech, which she'd piloted at the front lines on Kirro, Telnorr and Nauvis. All were terrible wars, wars which were won through her discipline and her bloodlust.

Coolant, oil and blood pooled together on the ground from where she scrambled, pushing her mech’s giant hands and knees through the dense undergrowth.

[CRITICAL CONDITION: RL 1]...
[CRITICAL CONDITION: LL 1]...

Help...

[CRITIAL CONDITION: REACTOR 3]...
[CRITIAL CONDITION: LIFE SUPPORT 2]..

Someone help me...

...

Various warning lights and alarms all hummed a song of terror and fear as the mech too screamed for help.

Her hulking cradle tried its best to keep her stabilized, flooding her body with enough painkillers to kill a horse; the sickening feeling of pain was reduced to something more dull, more manageable.

In her reprieve, the pilot glances around her hull with her posterior cameras. There’s a huge hole where her shoulder mounted gatling should be, and another straight through her machine’s abdomen. The metallic flakes shimmer like snow, swirling with dust and ember.

[CRITICAL CONDITION: HYDROLIC PRESSURE]...
...

With her pain now dulled enough to concentrate, her conditioning kicks in. The adrenaline slows to a manageable stream and her heart takes pace; she takes inventory of her surroundings.

Through blurring eyes she dismissed the blaring warnings from her master panel so she could peer through her quarter panels. She can hardly make out a transmission from a friendly unit. All she can make out from the static is a panicked...

“Fall back!”.

She needed to get out of the brush. She needed to contact Handler. These woods were compromising at the least, and were a deathwish at worst.

Missiles from mechs behind her still fly by, one of them splashing into a row of trees ahead, revealing the rest of the battlefield to her.

She watches a dropship with The Union's insignia flood the hills with seven more mechs.

“Thank Handler,” she thought to herself. “There’s my replacement squadron!”

As soon as relief tamed some of the andrelenine, her heart thrummed to life again; 4 of the 7 were splashed by insurgent missiles.

“Nasty insurgent missiles. Scum! Bastard scum!” She could feel her jaw clench then relax; a symptom of her conditioning.

The dropship lingered long enough for a few war battered troops to clammer on, recycling them out so they could reconvene 3 kilometers west to the command base.

She missed her chance.

...

The Gerard-7 Spigot was the largest class of fighting machines provided to pilots by The Union. Originally configured to carry battalion cargo to front lines, the tanky frame is lofted by two heavily armored hydraulic legs. Standing 12 feet tall, the frame is slightly taller than most machines deployed to battlefields, making them stick out during lineups.

In lieu of the cargo holding bay, bolted to its back are 4 individually actuating gatling C-RAMs, two short-ranged missile bays and a myriad of ground based communication gear. All-in-all a fairly standard modified mech, and to most pilots the fancy upgrades aren't what gives the Spigot its allure. Instead, it's the degree of personality bleed-a circumstance of integrating the mechanical systems of the mech with the brain-that interests them the most. It is often believed the benefits in speed and accuracy outweighs the dangers of forcing these two minds together.