Mech Pilot who found something bigger, faster, and more slobbery to work with.
"Pilot De Almeida, what is that thing doing in here?! Get away from it this instant! Security! We have a breach in mech bay 4! Native fauna!" the commander bellowed as she leaned out of the observation window high above.
Alarms started blaring up and down the base.
The pilot seemed unconcerned and continued draping a makeshift saddle over the slavering, hulking nightmare squatting in the middle of the bay.
The sound of hurrying boots and clinking heavy weaponry grew louder, converging on bay 4.
"Pilot De Almeida! Castle! I said get away from the deathstalke—"
"Horse, ma'am." Castle replied calmly, giving the massive mound of muscles and teeth an affectionate pat as doors were thrown open, and weapons and expletives were aimed at the creature.
The commander stared, at a loss for words. The only sounds in the room were itchy trigger fingers and the deep, rumbling bass of the deathstalker. When she finally found her tongue again, she could only repeat the word incredulously. "Horse?!"
"Yes, ma'am. Buttercup."
You could almost hear the poor woman's nerves snap. "You're telling me this this this thing is your pet?!"
Castle smiled diffidently. "Oh, no, ma'am. Of course not. Pets aren't allowed on base, as per section IIIa paragraph 7." She gave the deathstalker another scritch, and half the security guards plugging the doorways shat their pants at the happy growl.
"Buttercup is my remount ma'am. For when terrain or weather aren't suitable for mechanised infantry insertion."
A dangerous, furious silence radiated towards her.
"Appendix 3: Mobility and the mercenary force, section 4, paragraph 2, ma'am." Castle supplied helpfully. "Codified during something called 'The Great War.'"
The silence grew murderous.
But rules were rules.
Wasn't that what she always said?
