2,985 words.

My feet leave holes in the soft mud of this planet as I move toward the frontline. Below me, barely visible, are the specks, raging battle with one another. Their lasers flashing across the twilight lit battlefield remind me of the glitterbeetles flicking through the grass back home.

I fight for my side with blaster and blade. Blaster for the hostile specks, blade for my kin that fight for them. We fight for them not for sport, but because we were made for this. Created to fight. Born to protect.

My purpose is my bond. It is an honor to serve. An honor to exist.

My specks move out of my way to clear a path to the front. I see one of my kin approaching from their side and pick up my pace. This is why I was called here, to fight what the specks can’t. They have managed to bring down my kin before, but they don’t have many weapons that can touch us. So, I am here to kill my kin, or buy time for their aircraft to get in range if I fail.

But I’ve never failed before.

I start running. I want to meet my opponent on their side of the battlefield. I do not want to fear for the specks beneath our feet while I fight.

As I run, I try to watch my steps, but I still manage to crush a few abandoned entrenchments. I do not slow my pace. I cannot slow my pace. I have to hope the specks did not need them. I have to keep moving forward. A single leap takes me across no-man’s land and I cease to care where my feet fall. Battlements crumble as I land and I do my best to create a break in the enemy’s lines. Anything to help my side.

I look up and see that I barely made it across in time. I draw the bastard sword off my back to meet my kin. Our blades clash against each other with an ear splitting clang. I shove my opponent back and swing hard toward its waist. It blocks, and swings at my right leg. I easily deflect it and swing high.

My opponent parries, and we each step back. I am wielding my best weapon, a bastard sword I’ve used in a hundred battles. Across from me, my opponent is wielding a thin longsword. What I expected to see. This one has killed many of my friendly kin. We size each other up, scanning the other, looking for weak points, watching a replay of our short clash.

I see my path forward first, and lunge. A stab toward my opponent’s heart is dodged. It swings high, I duck. A jab forward at its ankle. It steps back. I slice upward; it deflects my sword to the side. I step forward with a slash. It parries and matches with a swing of its own.

My opponent has found what it believes to be my weak point. The true fight begins.

Back and forth we trade blows, slowly getting faster and faster, churning up the ground around us, spinning, twisting, slicing, blocking, swinging, until my opponent starts to retreat. I follow, raining down blow after blow. My strategy must be correct. This opponent fights too defensively. Fights too scared. Victory is within my grasp.

And then it isn’t.

I step forward and the ground buckles. My left leg buries itself up to my knee. Suddenly it makes sense why I beat my opponent to the frontline, despite them being here first. It makes sense why they fought so defensively. That’s where the enemy wanted me. They wanted me to force them back. I’ve been baited into a trap. I thought I saw how to win. I’ve been played, just as my kin before me.

My opponent attacks once more with a fury they didn’t show before. I barely deflect a swing meant for my head. My opponent’s sword raises high and crashes down. I cannot dodge, and my block is awkward. The blade forces my own down into my shoulder and glances off my pauldron.

A warning flashes in my HUD; my pauldron broke.

I will need a new one, but first I need to survive. Another swing, I meet it with my own and shove back at my opponent. It staggers back and I hit the jets on the bottom of my left foot. They blast upward and I find myself on even footing again. As I move my foot back, my opponent lunges back at me.

It is attacking my left side with a downward slice. The gap in my armor must tempt it. I deploy a small shield from my gauntlet and my opponent’s sword deflects down, into my ankle.

Pain shoots up my leg and I stagger back, knocking its sword free. The pain and my shock stuns me for a mere second, but that is too long.

My opponent’s next swing hits a pitiful block and sends my sword flying. My hand drops to my side as the pain in my ankle brings me to a knee. I draw my secondary right as my opponent swings for my head once more.

My sidearm, a gladius in reverse grip, is barely raised in time to block. This block is poor, but I am alive. Another swing comes back, I deflect that too, then I see an opening.

Lunging forward, ignoring the pain in my ankle, I stab for my opponent’s heart. Too late, I realize it was a feint.

My opponent’s sword bites into my shoulder, and bites through. Pain soars up and down my right side and I recoil. Looking right, my arm is gone.

I turn to look back at my opponent. I have nothing left. The blaster in my left hand is not strong enough to penetrate its armor. The pain is almost unbearable as my opponent pulls back for another swing. I fall to my knees. My only hope is that I bought enough time for my specks; I don’t think I did.

My opponent swings high once more. I have my shield, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t even try to block the swing that removes my head.

The pain is excruciating, then gone.

My opponent stabs for my heart. It misses, but it’s close enough. Pain shoots through the entirety of my body, and systems start to cascade into failure. I fall backwards onto the muddy ground and it embraces me in my failure. Slowly, at least to me, the pain stops. I know it’s because pieces are dying, but it’s still a relief. Steadily, the pain goes away until all that’s left is a tiny bit of darkening vision. The last thing I see is a pair of missile swarms soar overhead, destined for my opponent. Then I am wrapped into a suffocating darkness.

Oblivion.

I do not know how much time passes, but I can tell it does.

The darkness is claustrophobic.

Panic inducing.

Terrifying.

I want to see. I want to run. I want to live.

I want to know if I served my purpose.

I want to know if I fulfilled my promise.

I am numb for a long while.

Cold for a long while.

Gone, for a long while.

When I finally accept my death, the darkness is split by a crack of purest white. A white so blinding that even when I close my eyes, I can still see it. It hurts; it burns.

I feel hands on my body and they feel weird. Soft. Unsettling. A voice accompanies them. A rough, ragged voice. Damaged, I can’t understand him, but the strength it has comforts me.

Then I am lifted up, up, and two more pairs of hands grab me. They lift me up further, further, until more grab me. These lift me up and place my feet on solid ground.

I try to open my eyes, to make sense of these sensations, but I can’t. It’s too bright. I cover my eyes with my hands. Trying to block out the light, then I realize.

Both hands, on my face.

I am whole once more.

There is wind on my body, it’s cold. Very cold. I inhale, shakily, and my nose is assaulted by a rot. An organic smell that is both alien, and familiar.

This body, my body, begins to shake, tremble. I hear the voice from below, but still, I cannot understand.

Hands gently pull my own from my face, then something is placed on my head. Something that blocks the light and the smells. I open my eyes, I can see.

I see my saviors. I see them standing around me, a small squad of who I called “specks,” and I remember I am one of them.

Human.

I look around more. We are standing on a massive metal structure. My other body. My mech.

Everything clicks together. I’m a pilot. I always have been. My mech was the body that was destroyed, not my own. These soldiers around me, they are who I fought to protect. I make a request of this helmet, asking it how long I was under. How long I served my purpose.

It tells me four years. Four years of being inside a mech. Four years of being a mech. Reality comes back to me slow, fractured. This wouldn’t have happened had the link been disconnected, instead of severed.

A question is asked again, from the one I couldn’t understand before, and I’m brought back to the present. I can understand him this time, I think it is the helmet.

“Are you alright, pilot?”

Shakily, I nod. I am cold and wish for him to change this. I open my mouth, because he did. I know not how to speak. I think what I want to say, but nothing comes out. Then, the helmet repeats what I thought.

“I am cold. Can you fix?”

Immediately something is shoved at me, but not from the one I asked. I turn, confused, to see one of the other soldiers offering his long coat. Slowly, I take it and put it on over my skinsuit. It’s already warm. It’s comfortable. Comforting. I do not know how to close it, but the soldier helps me.

When it is sealed around me, another passes me his armor. I stare at him, only to realize the helmet reflected back at me in his visor, is the same that they are all wearing.

All aside from the strong voiced one. I must be wearing his helmet.

I do not understand, but I take the armor. He helps me fasten it around my chest. When he’s done, another hands me a pair of boots.

I need help getting them on, as I have forgotten how, but they are warm. None of this fits properly—I am much smaller than these soldiers—but it doesn’t matter. They honor me with clothing, armor, that I don’t deserve.

“Why do you honor me this way when I failed you?” the helmet asks for me.

The helmetless one answers me. “Failed? You’ve fought for us, you’ve shielded us with your body, and you’ve won battles for us, even today. The least we can do is put a coat on your back and get you home.”

I do not know what to say to that, so I droop my head. It seems to work, and they lead me toward the edge of my body. My mech.

I do not walk well. Staggering, fumbling along. Re-learning as I move. The soldiers are patient, kind. Helping me, making sure I do not fall. Even holding me up at times, when my legs don’t work how I thought they would. I tell them several times I can crawl. They refuse to let me.

After a long time, we reach the edge. Two of them jump down and turn to look back up. I do not wish to jump. I do not trust myself.

Then, the helmetless one steps to my side and grabs onto my arm. Another mirrors him on my other side.

“We’ve got you,” he says. I believe him.

The two soldiers hand me down to their brothers who gently set me on the ground. It’s not as soft as I thought, it isn’t mud. Just dirt. But it’s uneven, and I nearly fall on my first step.

I stumble badly on the next couple, only held up by the soldiers to my sides, when I feel my body get weightless. Then, I realize I am being carried.

Me, carried by these soldiers? Why would ones above me honor me this way?

I do not understand.

They bring me to a troop carrier and help me get in. The engine roars to life with a sound that scratches at a memory, and we are off.

Throughout the ride, these soldiers remove their helmets and stare at me like I am some sort of god. Some sort of idol. There is reverence in their eyes.

Once more, I do not understand.

After a time that seems longer than my oblivion, the troop carrier stops and the men file out ahead of me. Slowly, I make my way to the back, and the helmetless one is there to help me down.

My feet hit the ground and I nearly fall again. He holds me up.

The soldiers lead me to a shuttle, still helping me walk as I need it. As the shuttle’s doors open, an officer walks up.

“You were ordered to leave the pilot,” he says, in a weird tone I don’t understand.

The helmetless one raises an eyebrow. “Never got the order, sir.”

The officer nods. “Then, good work.”

He walks off.

Before I get on the shuttle, I start to unfasten the armor. The helmetless one stops me.

“Keep it, pilot. We’ve got spare. Remember us.”

I do not know how to thank him, so I droop my head once more. He seems to understand. A moment later, I straighten up and he helps me onto the shuttle.

The men who saved me all salute me. I attempt one of my own, it is poor. Their helmet visors are open and I see some smile. As I sit down, they turn and leave. The helmetless one waits a while longer, talking to the shuttle’s pilot.

When he turns to go, a sadness grips my chest.

“Wait!” I manage to croak out, finally finding my own voice.

The man turns to look back at me.

“Your na-me, Sol-dier.”

He straightens up. “Sergeant Roger Sullivan, pilot.”

I set an unsteady hand on my chest and sputter out the only name I’ve known for years.

“Gyp-sy.”

The salute he snaps off almost makes me blush. The honor these men give me feels like too much. I fought for them, not them for me. I do not understand. I will not understand.

The shuttle’s door closes and I am headed away. In my head, I know not what will come next. My heart wants to stay.

I want to protect my specks, my soldiers, my Sullivans.

I want to fight for them, shield for them, win for them.

I want, more than anything, to know what they saw in me, so that I may be what they saw in me.

I thought I understood my place. Understood my worth.

I no longer know.

For what truly defines worth? Sacrifice? Purpose? Skill? Persistence? Strength? Perception? Or something else entirely?

I know not.

I want to know.

But, I know not.

A knock at his door interrupts his meditation. Annoyed, he slowly brings himself out of his trance. This had better be important. Being head of the Hegemony’s research division grants him special authority to usually be free from unexpected events.
But apparently not today.

His eyes open to see his chief researcher standing in front of him, nervously shifting from one foot to the other.

“Speak.”

The researcher clears her throat, then looks down to a datapad and begins reading from it.

“In a recent report from the Calliope system, it seems a well-meaning squad of grunts has ‘saved’ a pilot from its downed mech without proper awakening protocols, due to a battlefield communications breakdown. The ‘poor bastard’ as the report calls the pilot, seems to have lost their mind. Fragments of the mech’s computer seem to have overwritten parts of the pilot’s brain, causing serious problems with standard function and an overall loss of understanding of self. The Calliope Research Division wants to know what they should do with this pilot.”

Intriguing. A pilot who survived being improperly extracted from their suit. Is this the first such case?

His mind, connected to his local network, searches through reports mentioning mech pilots at a blazing speed. He finds nothing.

“This pilot… Is capable of surviving on its own?” he asks.

The researcher nods. “It seems to be. There are struggles with walking, talking, and what is reported to be an ‘unconventional, or inhuman overall thought process and demeanor,’ but is capable of keeping itself alive and understands basic biological needs.”

Intriguing.

“Have Calliope send the pilot here to us. I believe they may be the key to our current project.”

“Which one, sir?” the researcher asks.

“Why, Project Oblivion of course.”

The researcher nods and gives him a bow before retreating from the room. Leaning back in his chair, he looks up at a projection of his predecessor over the door.

If whatever made this pilot survive turns out to be the secret to our problem, then maybe we will finally be able to break the stalemate. Maybe.

   And if I am the one to break the stalemate, I’ll go down in our history as better than those before me. Not just a scientist and a genius, but a savior.

Thank you for reading my short story!

This one was written entirely off of a concept I came up with in the shower. The second I got out, it was a mad scramble for my keyboard and I slammed it out in record time.

I do hope you enjoyed it!

– D. L.