"Mech Pilot who-"

Mech Pilot who took your place.

It is well past midnight. The citizens of "the crater" know well that being too loud, or shining too much light, could compromise the free living they have, so most are asleep by now. Deep within the "executive office" - several shipping containers welded together - Chief Harlan Moll dozes off in his chair. Several doors down, in a cobbled-together junkyard shack, Cap'n Stork is fast asleep in a futon made from scavenged army jackets and pulped carpet. On the opposite end of the corridor, the bar, Holdout '87, had last call an hour ago; the bartender tries his best to mop up some spills around the boxing ring.

On the edge of town, in the dusty old warehouse that has been repurposed as a mech hangar, inside the detached cargo ship hab-module tucked away in the corner, Katherine Niemeyer is fast asleep, with her left arm wedged between two pillows. Next to her, Mehr Shirazi stares straight up at the ceiling, as her heartbeat refuses to slow, and sleep evades her. She mulls over a mental checklist. She had plenty of activity earlier today, between pushing the cart of scrap from Stork's place to the hangar, and a few bouts of wrestling at the bar (mainly to keep in shape). No coffee today, no chocolates. She even opted not to watch whatever old monster movie was on TV, broadcast all the way from Idunn City. Deciding there's no point trying to rest now, Mehr carefully removes Kath's arm from her chest and slides out of the bed, trying to ignore the sudden chill as she does. This won't take long. She'll be back by morning. She quietly closes the bulkhead door to the hab-module on her way out, hoping it'll block the noise she's about to make.

Across the hangar, Mehr firmly presses the button to slide open the main doors. The proximity warning buzzer doesn't so much buzz as click repeatedly, the electronics in it being half a century old by now, and the wires no longer being pure and untainted. As the doors slowly slide open, Mehr runs to the other end of the hangar and clambers up the series of footholds leading up to the cockpit of the TLR-99 Lodestone.

It's not like there's a threat to take care of, tonight, Mehr thinks. I just want to make sure I still can.

Mech Pilot who took your place.

You are a flash-clone, a mech pilot by the callsign Manticore. As a flash-clone, you remember little; the tech who decanted you joked that you were born yesterday and had been up all night. You don't remember the person you were made from, but you remember how to fight. You don't ask what happened to the previous Manticore.

You are a flash-clone. The flash-cloning process left you with a scancode under your left eye. You think it makes people nervous. Nobody wants to talk to you. They don't even like looking at you.

You are a flash-clone. You train with your squad. In the mechs, it's easy to forget that there are people inside of them. The callsigns are for the mechs, really: Manticore, Gorgon, Cyclops, Hydra. You work together like you've been doing it all your life. You have, of course, but it's only been a week.

You are a flash-clone. During training, someone cracks a joke, which leads to a string of references. Hydra says something, sets up a punchline, and there's just silence afterwards. Gorgon and Cyclops try to laugh it off, but you can feel the empty space where the previous Manticore should have been.

You are a flash-clone. After your first real sortie, your squad finally sits with you in the mess hall. Hydra's fingers brush yours. Her cybernetic visor betrays nothing, but you see a quick blush above her soft lips. Gorgon cracks a joke, and the way he guffaws at his own humor lights up his eyes - and yours.

You are a flash-clone. The alarm sounds early in the morning, jolting you, Hydra, and Gorgon from each other's arms. The situation is dire. You'll have to sortie immediately.

You are a flash-clone. Hot plasma splashes across the slight cover you've found. You check your magazine; spent. Hydra sits across from you, hovering protectively over Gorgon. His legs are gone, blown off by a mine nobody saw until too late. He rests against a rock, arms still holding his rotary cannon. It's over, and everybody knows it.

You are a flash-clone. You're running through a storm of plasma and lead as your teammates shout in your ear. You switch them off, and spin up your reactor, ignoring the critical warning alerts. Maybe it only needs to be over for the enemy... and you. Maybe you can save the people you love. It's been a month. Your reactor cracks, and it's the last thing you know.

You are a flash-clone, a mech pilot by the callsign Manticore. As a flash-clone, you remember little; the tech who decanted you joked that you were born yesterday and had been up all night. You don't remember the person you were made from, but you remember how to fight. You don't ask what happened to the previous Manticore.

You are a flash-clone. The flash-cloning process left you with a scancode under your left eye. You think it makes people nervous. Nobody wants to talk to you. They don't even like looking at you.

Mech Pilot who cannot sleep at night, so tempted by the offer.

All this time, she thought they'd been in perfect sync together.

Maybe it was true back when they still fought for the Sunnr Armed Forces, for the 1st MRD. The way she could focus everything on the opponent in front of her, while her "highly compatible" remote co-pilot let loose on the enemy reinforcements, with as many guns as could reach in that direction.

Now, though, lying on her back in the double-bed, in the living quarters that used to be a hab-pod attached to a cargo ship, Kath began to think that maybe the decision to desert from the SAF was having consequences. The kind of consequences that would keep her dear partner awake and crying next to her, despite the warmth of another body, despite the plush comfort of her secret-favorite stuffed llamanoid. She rolled over, trying not to yank the covers, and positioned herself in whispering range. "Hey. Shhh. I'm here."

"I know." Mehr did not whisper back. It was more of a groan, a tired exhalation. "I can't quit thinking."

Mech Pilot who’s still listening to that 8-track you gave them.

I actually have this track living rent free in my brain space, and let me tell you, there's not a thing I regret more than letting my friend have his copy of the game and the controller back. I imagine it may have been sold for drug money, kid developed several dependency disorders when we parted ways.