Mech Pilot whose only shot at surviving is by taming a Feral Mech.
Click Click Click. A cold drop of sweat touched Sigrid’s lips snapping her out of shock. Somehow, she was alive. Staring down the barrel of a gun larger than her torso, Sigrid was confused to why she wasn’t a splatter of blood against the junkyard dirt. However, as luck would, finally, have her the abnormal Wyvern’s gun was out of bullets. Sigrid had to stifle the nervous laughter welling inside her. Her being alive? That was frankly outrageous.
But what was even more outrageous was that the legends were true. One of the Union’s Wyvern’s gaining proper sentience and autonomy. She much preferred it was just a locker room ghost story.
Yet here it was, clad in black armor, peculiar metal wings, crushed legs, and two red cameras that peered into Sigrid: one of the Ghosts of the Union. A Living Wyvern.
“Easy… easy” Sigrid mimed the tones of an animal handler she saw in a movie once. The cool actor eased the wild lion down with honeyed words and calm gestures. Of course, the cool actor was far more controlled than Sigrid could even manage on her best days. “I’m not going to hurt you” she cooed. Sigrid took one step closer.
The Wyvern, thankfully let her, or maybe it was it couldn’t stop her? It’s right arm hasn’t moved from holding itself up, and it’s left trembled as it held the empty gun. Could the thing fear her? Or was it lack of power to hold itself upright? Sigrid hoped it was the former, if not…
She checked the status of her suit—the crack in the screen was growing larger and larger. Air was down to 5… no 4 minutes left. Less probably (the conglomerate always paid the cheap stuff). Sigrid took another step, and another. It’s red eyes followed Sigrid, silently observing the humans approach. Her hand was mere inches from the emergency release hatch, when the Wyvern let out another electronic growl.
Sigrid leaped back. Her heart thudded against the suit. She begged for air, but found none. There were 3 minutes left. “I…” the suit’s air had always been stale, but now it was choking her. “I’m… just… need… to get… inside—”, 2 minutes and plunging, “—we can’t… survive… without… each… other…” 1 minute (but if she was being honest probably more like 30 seconds). There was nothing else she could do—other than use up the last of her oxygen in a desperate gulp and close her eyes.
Gods weren’t real, but maybe praying to the Wyvern would help.
There was a clunk of metal and a hiss of air, as the cockpit of the Wyvern opened, and Sigrid dived in. She barely had time to process that there was someone—or rather a body—still on the pilot’s seat. She pitched the old pilot instinctively, and slammed the cockpit shut. Led lights flickered on, as Sigrid threw off the helmet and drank in the air flooding the chamber.
Sigrid snapped the switches of the beast on, and the CRT screen fizzled back to life. “Union made… Wyvern Dragoon Prototype: Fáfnir…” well that explained she didn’t quite recognize it. How’d this end up in the junk heap of a planet… unless, “You’re on the run?” If that was the case, it works out perfectly. “Guess we have that in common. Neither the Industries or Union like things they can’t control. Isn’t that right, Fáfnir?” A bad joke. Her worst yet. But if the pulse of the led lights and hum of electronic was any indication, it worked.
Sigrid primed the engine and yanked the throttle back. Even inside half a foot of saturn iron, the coughing and sputtering of the thrusters overwhelmed the hapless pilot. Desperate, Sigrid diverted power from the crushed legs, drained the plasma sword, walloped the back of the cockpit closest to the engine (“Sorry”), and pulled the throttle once more with all her might.
The thrusters hacked and protested once more at first. But then they screamed fire—carrying Fáfnir up out of the corpses of the junkyard. There was sheering of metal, and the CRT pinged Sigrid to let her know that Fáfnir no longer had legs from the knees down. Well that’ll be a problem for future Sigrid, unless neither of them went planetside again then it’s no one’s problem.
Once the pair had escaped the planets gravity, Sigrid turned the thrusters down and basked in the comfort of zero g. She pulled a map up on a CRT screen, battle lines zig zagging between planets and space stations. “Right now, there is not much in the way of good choices for fugitives like us. But I know some people at—” Fáfnir’s thrusters roared and the mech hooked right and Sigrid flew face first into a monitor. She groaned while the joysticks that ‘controlled’ Fáfnir were piloted by the unseen hands of the mech. When she peeled her face off the screen and appraised the route, Sigrid could only sigh. Well—looks like I don't have a choice.
Truth be told: Sigrid didn’t really care for things she couldn’t control either.
