Empty hangars are a funny place, Syl Crucigera thinks to herself for probably the twentieth time this week. So much wasted space. She stands up from her cot and paces around the eight by eight foot square of space she’s been allocated in her makeshift cell. Looking out across the endless field of similar cages scattered throughout the massive former Imperial base, it seems she’s the first one awake. Typical.
When the rebels decided the hangars would be the new sites of their prisoner-of-war camps, they had it completely stripped—thousands of them swarmed the complex and combed over every square inch of the place. It makes its already eerie size seem even more ghastly. The Riffaute is gone. Who knows what happened to it. Maybe it’s already been cannibalized; distributed to upgrade those hotshot heroes’ mechs even though the fighting is long over. Maybe it was unceremoniously dumped into a scrap heap. Maybe some imbecile is actually trying to figure out how to pilot it.
Syl hates it here, she decides. She’d always hated the hangar, in fact, even when it was full. Too much noise, too much movement, too many eyes—all bouncing off of each and every surface and giving chase until she was safe in her quarters. Safe with Her.
She reminds herself to breathe more slowly. Remember what She would say. No need to get so worked up this early. She raises a hand to the back of her neck. Feels for the slight divot where she and the Riffaute used to connect. The spot that She would always caress so gently whenever Syl was feeling anxious.
Syl really, really needs to see Her again.
***
Imogen Vassal lies awake in her cot and tries to stare at the ceiling. She isn’t quite sure she can actually see it. The first time she arrived at the Imperial base in Utinsch City, she found it impressive; now it just seems like a waste. A hollow tomb to the world that once was.
Eventually, she gets bored of squinting at the roof. She stands up; takes in the quiet morning scene. The floor of the hangar is a hodgepodge of haphazardly constructed cells. It’s barely adequate to serve as temporary holding for the many hundreds of Imperial officers, pilots, mechanics, and foot soldiers who didn’t manage to flee before the rebels took the city. Some of them are beginning to stir, though only a few have risen and are pacing around their cages.
Imogen knows by now that Syl’s cell is nowhere close to hers, but she still methodically double-checks each inmate’s face for Syl’s thin, arched eyebrows; her jagged, busted nose; her deep brown eyes that dart this way and that; her rat’s nest of rust-colored hair that probably hasn’t been properly washed in days.
She had tried to explain whenever a rebel wandered by her area that separating pilots from their handlers was an awful idea. Especially pilots like Syl.
It was ultimately useless, though. The new management was hardly different from her Imperial superiors. Always about results. Doesn't matter who they trample along the way. Imogen just has to hope Syl is remembering her breathing.
***
The morning alarm brings Syl sharply back to the ground. The ringing in her ears has barely faded when she sees two armed rebels heading towards her cell. She's seen enough of the other soldiers near her get taken to be tried—must be her turn today.
The guards escort her to a clearing at the center of the hangar, surrounded on all sides by cells housing other Imperials. At the front is a ten-foot long bench of amateurishly welded scrap steel where a dozen or so bored-looking rebel officers sit. There’s another, smaller cage directly in front of the panel, holding—
No.
It’s Imogen.
"No!!"
Syl stops dead in her tracks. Imogen turns around, makes eye contact with her, and nods. It’s just enough for her to snap.
Without hesitating, Syl lunges toward the cage with animal ferocity. The guards try to grab her, force her back into what she was before—that meek and small and shivering girl—but that Syl is gone. She’s sunk to something else, forgotten where she is. Forgotten everything, except that her Handler is in trouble, and only she can save Her. Syl is just a Hound now.
The prisoners surrounding the area watch in awed silence as the dog who used to be Syl Crucigera wails and howls and claws at the bars of Imogen’s cage. Every guard who tries to pry her away is met with a kick or a swipe or a bite, guttural screeches echoing throughout the vast space of the hangar. Eventually, someone grabs a stun gun. There’s a ZAP, a WHUMP, and the Hound collapses to the floor.
***
Syl’s dream, like usual, is the memory of her worst day:
It started as a simple scouting job. She’d done hundreds of them before, but that never seemed to help ease her nerves. She sat hunched amongst the dense foliage that adorned the Topac Hills rock formations, waiting for instruction. When she closed her eyes, all she could see were the faces of everyone back home—the people who had left her behind to rot because of her failures. Because she was a failure.
So Syl didn’t blink. She stared straight ahead through the viewport of her Riffaute, and remembered the captain’s advice for controlling her breathing. (What was her name again? Didn’t Handler teach her that technique?) She drew in ragged gasps of filtered air from her mech’s ventilation. Counted slowly in her head—eight in, eight held, sixteen out—she only made it to four held before a crackle from her comms system made her let out her lungs in a huff.
"Stay alert, Syl," a vaguely familiar voice said from the radio. "Looks like trouble downhill." Why couldn’t Syl remember her name? Why wasn’t that Handler’s voice? "Readings are unclear. We need you to double-check the route."
"Copy." Of course. She was spacing out. She felt a pang of guilt for being so careless. "On my way."
They needed her.
The Riffaute wasn’t a typical mech—it was built for stealth and reconnaissance, with only minor combat enhancements. It was a tiny machine, only seven or eight feet tall when it stood upright. Its long-range comms systems could intercept signals from hundreds of miles away, and it had been outfitted with state-of-the-art cloaking tech. Syl piloted it with expert efficiency; she would slink along the ground on all fours, methodically weaving through whatever terrain her sorties brought her to. Its stun pulses let her pounce on lone scouts and tear them to shreds with her claws before the Riffaute was even a blip on their radars.
This mission felt different, though. Piloting in such an open space made her nervous. Not much cover in the hills. The paranoia that usually disappeared when she was in the cockpit had followed her today. She tried to push it away. She remembered what that voice had said on the radio.
They need me.
The Riffaute crawled its way down craggy sandstone cliffs and into the valley carved by the Ferrenica River below, hiding beneath bushes and behind trees. The roar of the nearby waterfall bored into Syl’s brain. She couldn’t focus like this. Her thoughts drifted back to the strange familiarity of the voice. Who was that, giving her orders? Only She was supposed to do that anymore.
Syl was nearly halfway down the hillside when she finally noticed the gigantic, insectoid mech standing in the river below, blocking the only path through the valley.
Shit! Syl’s breathing started getting faster. That thing was five times the size of the Riffaute. How in the world had it not shown up on her scanners? Had she really been that distracted? There was no way a machine that big could cloak itself. And yet there it was, still as a statue, front legs raised off the ground, and with its head trained eerily close to her location.
"Captain," Syl’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Is this the trouble you were talking about?”
No response. Uh oh. That godsdamn beast probably had some ridiculous jamming system.
Syl tried to ignore the pounding behind her eyes. Focus. Take it slow. She kept the Riffaute creeping steadily down the hill, inching closer to the ant-like skyscraper at the end of the valley. If she could only get a little closer, she'd be able to engage for just long enough for backup to arrive. She just needed to get a pulse off. Only a few more yards until she was in range. She tried breathing again.
This time, she only reached three in before the trouble started.
The statue snapped to life, and extended a fist pointed right at Syl. Without hesitating, it let off a burst of three rockets that could each take out her machine in one blow.
Syl tried not to panic. She really did. She choked on her own breath as she leapt down the cliff. The hind legs of her Riffaute had barely touched the ground when the first missile hit. It crashed into a tree near where she had just jumped from.
Milliseconds later, the second one created a new cave in the sandstone above her. The cliff began crumbling. Miniscule sandstone pebbles pelted her mech’s armor. A few hundred grains worked their way into its joints. Syl could feel her machine stiffening up. So, she took a gamble. She tried to tuck into a roll and tumble down the rest of the hill.
And then the third missile struck the Riffaute in its left hind leg.
The impact sent Syl spinning wildly off-course. She careened into the river. The water was barely a foot deep, with jagged boulders breaking up the rapids. One of them caught Syl’s mech in the side as she fell, flipping it onto its back.
The beast on the other side of the river was a statue again. It watched Syl struggle to get the Riffaute back to its feet. With only three of them left, she knew she couldn’t get close to that thing—and even if she did, her measly claws wouldn't even pierce its armor. Her stun pulse was probably offline from all the damage, and who knows if it would've worked on something that big. She hoped it didn’t have any more of those missiles.
Turned out it had something worse.
The mech pulled an absurdly large gun from its back and trained it on Syl. She could hear it charging up even over the sound of the waterfall. She didn’t know what kind of blast that thing could deliver, and she didn’t want to find out. She looked around desperately for an escape route, an ally, a weapon, anything to bail her out. Nothing. No way her poor machine could climb out of this valley without getting smashed to pieces. In desperation, she tried the radio again.
"Mayday! Mayday! Unit Riffaute requesting backup! Hello!? Anyone?!?! Help!!!"
Still nothing. Syl couldn’t tell if the high-pitched whine piercing out all her thoughts was the gun or just tinnitus. She let out a choked scream, slammed the controls of her mech in frustration, covered her ears and began to cry in heaving sobs. And that’s when the walking fortress pulled the trigger.
The dream always gets a little fuzzy from there. Just a series of images floating through Syl’s subconscious. A pulse of electro-magnetism and a flash of white. The armored arthropod lumbering towards her, plucking her off the ground, and carrying her away. Allied mechs, cockpits smashed open by the beast’s fists. Machine carcasses tossed down the mountain. The Ferrenica River, sanguine with rust and silt and blood.
***
When Syl wakes up from her nightmare, she’s in a different room; one that she recognizes. She’s back in her quarters. Handler must have told them what she needed. Her heart is still pounding with leftover terror, but her breathing comes much easier now. Eight in, eight held, sixteen out. Eight in, eight held, one, two, three, four—
Then the door opens and she feels like she’s suffocating again. Another rebel officer steps in. Syl has to stop herself from growling at her. Remind herself to stay calm.
"Hi, Syl," the woman says. "I was in the room during your um...incident. I asked if I could see where they were keeping you. Do you remember me?"
Her casual tone makes Syl drop the aggression. "I...um. I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t know." Her voice is so small.
The woman’s eyebrows knit together. "Gods, they really did a number on y’all," she mutters, and shakes her head. "My name’s Neima. Vyrrel." She awkwardly extends a hand to Syl. "I used to be your captain."
Syl looks at Neima’s offered hand. She’s at a loss for words. What does this woman want from her? She looks back up to Neima’s face. She looks so...mournful?
"I’m sorry," Syl says again. "Um. W-what did you—why did you want to see me?"
"I—" Neima looks taken aback. "Syl! You seriously don’t remember me? You don’t remember what happened? I thought you were dead!"
Syl can feel her lungs growing tighter. She can already see where this is going.
That doesn’t make it sting any less when Neima grumbles, pulls her hand away, and says, "Honestly, I hoped you were dead."
Syl almost stops breathing entirely. "N-n-no...p-please, you don’t—"
"We lost six excellent pilots in the Topac Hills," Neima is solemn now. "You led us right into a trap, and then you disappeared."
"B-but—that's—that's not what happened!!" Syl's eyes are watering. She's hyperventilating. Seeing flashes of her dream behind her eyes as she blinks away the tears.
"Oh, please," Neima scoffs. "As if you could actually remember. I've seen what's happened to all those other captured pilots. I know what they're capable of."
"I—" Syl starts to argue, but Neima is right. She can't remember. The nightmare was vivid, but Syl knows better than to trust it. Handler always said that her memory gets untrustworthy during combat. She stares at the floor. The tears begin falling now, drizzling onto her knees. "I'm sorry," she mumbles again.
"Ugh. Have you always been so pathetic? Maybe she was right."
"...Wh-who was right?" Syl already knows the answer.
"That devil you answer to. Imogen. I'm handling her trial. She wouldn't shut up about you." She's pacing now. "I told her I wanted to see you—to talk to you for myself. She told me I wouldn't like what I saw." Neima looks at the crumpled heap of Syl in front of her. She's crying harder now. "I didn't want to believe her."
Syl is choking on her own sobs. "D-d-don't say that ab-bout Her!!"
"So she really does have you wrapped around her finger." Neima is fuming.
"It's n-not like that!"
"Shut the fuck UP!" Neima kicks the wall. Syl flinches. "I can't believe I used to actually respect you! But you were only ever worth a damn inside that ridiculous mutt you called a mech. I guess they realized that too."
Syl can't say anything more. She's gasping for air in between wails that sound more like howls. She wants so desperately for Neima to go further; to show Syl just how much of a failure she thinks she is. Maybe even to snuff her out completely. She would deserve it, for all she's done.
But she can't ask. She won't admit what she needs. Better to shrink away from it—hide in the bushes, wait for her Handler to give instruction; to set her free.
"Stupid fucking dog," Neima finally mutters. She takes one last look at the tear-stained mess in the fetal position on the floor in front of her, spits on her (Syl's face brightens for just a moment), and leaves. Syl's wails only get louder as she walks away.
***
Syl can't tell how long she waits for her next guest. It feels like an eternity, alone and seemingly forgotten. She doesn't have the energy to stand up, or to cry for Handler. She knows it would be in vain anyway. The rebels don't care about what she needs. They're too concerned with their warped sense of justice. Too hell-bent on retribution.
So Syl sits in the corner of her quarters, knees to her chest, rocking back and forth to calm herself. Breathing exercises be damned.
It's a familiar discomfort, at least; whenever a mission went sideways, this is where she would end up. Locked in her room, deprived of everything that soothed her. No visits from Handler until it was time to ship out again. It was miserable, but not nearly as miserable as it felt to let Her down. Syl always thanked Her for the opportunity to better herself. For the chance at redemption.
That chance won't come this time. The fight is done. No more missions. Nothing to do but wait.
Finally, the door opens. Syl's head snaps up so fast it nearly breaks her neck. It's Her. A rebel guard unceremoniously pushes Her into the room, leaves, and locks the door. She looks so tired. Her hands are cuffed in front of Her, shackled to Her ankles. She shouldn't be defaced like this. Don't they know how important it is that She stays unharmed? Don't they see how perfect She is?
"Hello, darling," Imogen coos. "I'm so sorry I couldn't be here sooner." She always knows just what to say. Of course She was trying so hard to see Syl. Of course they wouldn't let Her. Syl rushes towards Her, throws her arms around Her, buries her head in Her chest and starts crying all over again.
Imogen caresses Syl gently, as best She can with the limited mobility She's been granted. It still feels like home to Syl. She melts into Imogen's touch, nuzzles into Her neck and desperately takes in whiffs of Her perfect glossy black hair.
"They've been so cruel to you," Imogen says, running Her fingertips over that spot on the back of Syl's neck. Syl doesn't say anything—she can't, really—just nods and whines and buries her head even further into Her neck. The tears are flowing faster than ever.
Syl finally pulls her head back to look Imogen in the eye. She probably looks so disheveled. They haven't let her shower since bringing her down here, or allowed her to inject her estrogen. She can feel the scruff on her face coming back in. It doesn't matter to her Handler. She looks at Syl with the same adoration that She always had after a job well done.
"I—I'm s-s-s-sorry," Syl chokes out a meek apology between sniffles. "I'm s-sorry I c-c-couldn't—I—"
"Shhh," Imogen pulls Syl's face back into Her chest. "You did wonderfully, sweetheart. I promise."
Those words fully crack open the dam. Syl bawls, gasps out "thank-you-thank-you-thank-you," shakes and shudders until she's exhausted herself. When she can't weep any longer, Imogen slowly pulls Syl's head away from Her, and meets her gaze.
"Listen," She says, looking gravely serious now. "They want you to testify tomorrow."
***
The trials have all been brief—Imogen hasn't seen any firsthand (besides the first day of her own), but you can hear the sentencings echoing from the furthest corners of the hanger. That, and the prisoners talk. Word travels fast when there's little to do but gossip. Imogen is apparently the first of the Imperial Handlers to be tried. She's also the only one so far to have a single Imperial witness.
They're in a different room this time—a repurposed private office tucked away near Syl's quarters. Imogen's old boss's office. There's no audience of Imperial prisoners, no bored rebel officers, though Imogen can see a few cameras in the corners of the room. Neima describes it as an "informal questioning." But Imogen knows that this is it; her and Syl's final opportunity to make them see reason.
They're bringing Syl in now, poor thing. They've got her shackled up too, even tighter than Imogen is. They might as well have her straitjacketed. She's shaking, keeps trying to reach for the back of her neck. The guards lead her to a seat at the table right next to Imogen, and swiftly leave. Despite everything, she looks better than she did last night.
Imogen had to argue with a guard for nearly an hour to get Syl her injection. They didn't even get the dose right. And how is she supposed to do it without Imogen next time? They've allowed her a shower, at least. Her hair isn't quite perfect (she was never all that good at washing it without help), but the small dignities allow her to hold her head ever so slightly higher. She catches Imogen's gaze and smiles. Imogen smiles back, as reassuringly as she can. She hopes she's prepared Syl well enough.
Neima is already at her side of the table, jumping right in. "Please state your name." She's a short girl, shorter than Syl even, but she stands with an imposing presence. She's practically glaring at Syl already.
"Um, Sylvia Crucigera." She's already breathing heavy. She looks nervously to her left—to Imogen, who lifts her hand as if conducting her to breathe. She does. Inhales slowly, holds it, and lets it out as the rebel asks her first question.
"About how long were you Ms. Vassal's...direct inferior?"
Syl's brow furrows. "Um...around two years. I think?"
"You think?" Neima moves closer to Syl. She shrinks away. Flinches, almost.
"It—um, it's hard for me to remember."
"Is it hard for you to remember...other things, too?" Imogen can barely contain a scoff. Neima's really laying it on thick, but this is nothing. Softball shit.
"Y-yes, sometimes." Syl shifts a little in her seat, and flits her eyes around the room to avoid making eye contact with Neima. "Wh-when I go on missions, um, s-s-sometimes it feels like—like—like someone else is piloting."
Neima looks satisfied with this answer. She paces between Syl and Imogen. "Are you aware, Ms. Crucigera," she continues, "that Ms. Vassal performed drug-aided psychological manipulation in order to, as she says, 'release your full potential as a pilot?'"
"I, um—" Syl looks to Imogen for help—she nods encouragingly. "D-d-do you mean, um, m-my hormones?"
"Feminizing hormones, yes—among other things," Neima says as she pulls a folder from atop the table. "Our lab technicians are still working to determine the full makeup," she says to Imogen, condescendingly, "but it's a real nasty cocktail of stimulants." She turns back to Syl. "Surely you understand why we couldn't allow you access to these dangerous drugs, given the circumstances."
These fucking ghouls.
Imogen had been able to see this kind of cruelty coming from the Empire; she took it on its face as something to be worked around—a given for a regime so uncaring as the one she worked for. But she somehow had never expected the rebels to act so punitively. Is this what they think liberation is?
She's beginning to doubt her plan. Can she really trust such misguided fools to show a single shred of compassion for the hounds in their care? Will they even listen to the nervous, shattered one right in front of them?
Syl is on the verge of tears now. "I—b-but that, um," she stammers. Again, she looks to Imogen for help. Imogen, with no other answer for her poor Hound, makes her conducting motion again.
It's enough, for now. Syl takes a deep breath. Her voice still shakes, but her shoulders don't. "I'm sorry...I...I don't understand." Her face works to stave off crying. "Th-the drugs—that was my m-m-medicine! She didn't—She wouldn't—"
"Please," Neima cuts her off with a wave. Syl shrinks again. "Let me continue. Are you also aware that Ms. Vassal instilled within you, through the use of experimental neural-plug technologies, 'a dependency on structure, discipline, and gentle but firm guidance' while piloting your machine?"
"Well, um," now Syl turns red and looks at the floor. "Y-yes, She um—She said I n-n-n-needed to—th-that I wasn't—"
Neima cuts her off again. "Yeah, yeah, she mentioned you have trouble...what did she say?" She shuffles through her papers. "'Operating within full personhood.'"
Syl looks down and nods slowly. "I do..."
This catches the former rebel captain off guard. "I'm sorry?"
"I d-don't—I, um, I can't b-be trusted to m-m-make—" Syl babbles. "Handl—um...Imogen—" (Syl can barely even say her name; gods she's so cute.) "She says I'm b-better this way. Th-that I—um—" Imogen can see Syl struggling to get the words out. But she's a good Hound. She steels herself. "That I need it. It’s the only way I can b-be a good pilot."
Neima is silent, for once.
Syl speaks up again. "She—um. I th-think She's right. I don’t—"
"You know she told me to beat you, right?"
This hits Syl squarely in the chest. Neima said it quietly, but in the silence of the tiny office, the words fill every empty inch.
"She—" Syl looks over to Imogen, desperate. Imogen stares straight ahead. She can't let Syl see the truth in her eyes.
Neima doesn't stop there, though. "Worse than that," she continues, standing up and pacing in front of the table. "She told me you neededto be beat. That it wasn't enough for you to be put in solitary. That it was the only way you'd cooperate."
"B-but—I don't—" Syl is pleading for Imogen's eyes—she needs her conductor again. "I d-d-don't believe—" Imogen fights hard to look straight ahead.
"'Course, once I saw you, I could start to see what she meant. Spineless little traitor like you? Must've been soeasy to break you." Neima stops directly in front of Syl. She doesn't notice. She's still hungry for Imogen's gaze. "FuckingLOOK at me!!"
She doesn't. She's starting to cry. Imogen only has eyes for the wall. Can't let her see.
"Don't you see? Don't you care?? That she manipulated you? Abused you? Fed you who knows what kinds of drugs, for who knows how long? Turned your memories of your comrades—of ME—into sludge?? Syl..." Neima looks utterly anguished. Syl still doesn't look away from her Handler.
"I—I'm s-s-sorry, N-Neima," she says, quiet as ever.
Those words make everything fall apart.
Neima’s face contorts, almost indistinguishably. Her hands ball into fists. Within a second of Syl's apology leaving her lips, Neima's knuckles find their target on her cheek. Blood spills from Syl's mouth as she hits the table with a THWACK. Her nose is probably broken. Neima doesn't seem to care about that. She grabs a handful of Syl's dense, tangled hair and yanks her back up for another blow. This one looses a tooth with a sharp CRACK. Another, to her chest. Syl coughs, but she's smiling. For her, this is perfect release. This is exactly what she needs, and it shows. It only disgusts Neima more.
Another punch. In the eye. In the tit. In the stomach. Another. Another. Another. In a few sharp motions, Neima throws Syl to the floor, casts the table aside, and begins kicking. She doesn't even say anything. Just grunts. Growls. Another kick. Stomps on Syl's face—once, twice, three times. When the rebel guards return to break up the slaughter, Syl resembles the torn-up, rusted mechs that are still sitting at the bottom of the Ferennica River.
Now it's Imogen who aches for eye contact from her poor, perfect, bloodied Hound. But, whether she's not lucid enough to see her Handler, or she's simply too heartbroken to look, Syl doesn't even lift her head as they drag her away.