It's Jackie's day off, so instead of driving up the mountain, she's weeding out the back of her house. Lost track of time a bit, everything's getting cool and evening blue, but it's nice out, a little more won't hurt. It's relaxing.

Until she reaches out for the last of her bad-habit drink on the rock to her left, anyway. The can's gone. She frowns, didn't hear it fall, didn't feel any wind that might have knocked it off; maybe she brushed against it. She rises on her knees to peer at the far side of the rock; no sign of it.

But on top of the rock, where it had been, there's a small stone. And when she slowly, gingerly picks it up, she finds it's a fossil, an ammonite.

Consciously, deliberately, she breathes.

"Old Fred," she says. "He said he didn't rightly know what you'd do, if someone crossed you. Suggested that anyone who thought they might have should — move. To the city. Pray. But he said he'd never heard tell of you coming away from the mountain, and we're a little way off. Did I—" and she hesitates. "Did I do something?"

"No," the voice says, and Jackie freezes as something touches her, in the small of her back. Cold, through her soft cotton shirt; a finger, chilled from the outdoors, maybe. And then there's a second touch, and — fingers, yeah, walking up her spine in a leisurely way.

"Anything I should — make amends for?" Jackie says. Her eyes fall on the ground in front of her, the last gold of the falling sun painting long streaks pointing away from the foot of everything. Her own shadow reaches almost to the house — her own, mixed with that of someone behind and slightly to the side —

She shuts her eyes tight, and shivers; the fingers pause, and then are gone.

"This doesn't taste good."

"Sorry. It's — the no-sugar ones are pretty bad," Jackie admits, feeling like she's floating in a surreal, liminal space where the thing on the mountain wants to discuss energy drinks. "My mom always got on my case about drinks with sugar. You'll get fat and unhealthy, Jackie—"

"Your body's fine," it says. Cold fingertips splay across her sides for a second. "You could run from something, if you had to," it says, in an unreassuringly matter-of-fact way. "Have things that taste good."

"Okay," she says. What else can she do, really. "Okay, I'll — bear that in mind."

It's dark when she dares move. Next morning, she finds the crushed and empty can in the driver's door compartment of her truck, where she tucks any loose litter she picks up on the mountain on her way up to work.

Mech Pilot who doesn’t listen to the voices.

I awake this morning to a new message from Central Command, a blue light blinking on my private terminal. We had been on the front last night; I am owed a recovery day. But there are no new orders, it's merely the bi-annual NSAS questionnaire. Automated. I have five days to complete it or be suspended from active duty. I'm not the type to put these things off, so after a private breakfast I sit down at my terminal to complete the form.

Early detection of Nerve-Synchronization Anthropomorphism Syndrome is critical to keeping pilots safe and effective. Your honesty is essential if we are to...

I've heard it all before. I skip to the first question.

Do you have a name for your synced Mechanized Enhancement Suit (Mech)?

Of course I do, everyone does. Command tries to discourage this, but people have been naming their machines forever, long before Nerve-Sync was deployed. Mine is called Agatha. It's no secret, best to be honest here.

How would you describe your Mech?

Agatha is a scout model, fast and sleek. A thing of beauty. She's capricious too; moody even. Prone to bouts of violent glee that border on manic. Sometimes it's a struggle to keep her in line. I say none of this. I detail her technical specifications, her armament, the shade of purple I have painted her. I throw in a few flowery descriptors so I don't appear too aloof.

When deployed, do you consider your Mech's feelings before engaging the enemy?

Of course not. Agatha is eager for battle, it's in her nature. But that's none of Command's business.

Does your Mech ever speak to you?

I spend a long time on this one. Agatha... does not have a voice. At least that is not how I would describe it. She makes her wishes known to me, but I do not think she's ever used words. She uses impressions, abstract thoughts and feelings, communicated to me through our link. I don't let her boss me around though. I'm the pilot - I'm in control. Agatha does what I ask, not the other way around. She certainly doesn't speak to me. My relation to her is of no concern. Not to Command, not to anyone but me. A simple 'No' will suffice for this question.

This concludes the questionnaire. If you experience any abnormal sensations while synced to your Mechanized Enhancement Suit, you are bound by regulation to contact...

On and on it goes. None of it is relevant to me. Agatha and I get along just fine. I've seen NSAS claim other pilots. They start treating their Mech like a person, and totally lose all perspective. It's only a matter of time until they're pulled from active duty and sent to some kind of recuperation center, never to pilot a Mech again. I'm not going to be like them. I'm in control of my own faculties. And Command can't tell me how to feel about my own machine. Agatha and I have a bond. We can survive anything. They'll never take me away from her.

Never.

*Dozens of other enbies murmuring to themselves in the club*

"It's them! It's the Theywalker!"

"What do you mean, outside my jurisdiction?"

"You crossed the river dude. The Idol Saints are in charge of Kansas City, Kansas. Kansas City, Missouri is Crush Witches territory. I'll cut you some slack since you're new, but next time just stay in KCK."

"Wait, hold on, so there's two different magical girl teams in the same city just because it straddles a state border?"

"Technically it's two cities in the same metropolitan area."

"And we don't just cooperate and cover the whole area together because?"

"Hey, I didn't draw up the borders. You got an issue with it, take it up with the union."