Chapter 1: Briefing Room Humiliation
The war room air tasted like ozone and stale coffee. Nova focused on that—the sharp tang at the back of her throat, the bitter grounds on her tongue—anything to ignore the other, more humiliating sensation. The cold, utilitarian chair seemed to amplify the faint, telltale crinkle under her uniform with every tiny, controlled shift of her weight.
Holographic schematics of the Durgan Canyon zone rotated slowly above the central table, casting jagged blue shadows across Commander Anya Petrova’s face. The Commander’s voice was a low, steady drone, outlining drop zones and probable enemy resistance. Nova tracked the data streams, her mind instinctively calculating angles of attack, heat dissipation rates for her Razorfalcon, weapon loadouts.
But her body was betraying her. A slow, warm seepage, impossible to stop, a stark reminder of the price her mind had paid for its symbiosis with war machines. The Enhanced Imaging neural link—it giveth lightning-fast reflexes, it taketh away basic bodily control. The medics called it ‘neurogenic detrusor overactivity.’ Nova called it a waking nightmare.
“Lieutenant.”
Petrova’s voice cut through the tactical briefing. The low hum of conversation died. Nova snapped her gaze up, meeting the Commander’s steely eyes. Petrova wasn’t looking at the hologram anymore. She was looking directly at Nova, a faint, almost imperceptible line of tension around her mouth.
“You tracking the primary LZ, or are you doing a systems check on your own plumbing?” Petrova’s tone was dry, devoid of mockery, which somehow made it worse. It was a simple statement of observed fact.
A hot flush crawled up Nova’s neck. “Tracking, ma’am. Primary LZ is a hot zone. Recommend we use the canyon’s eastern shadow for approach.”
“Noted.” Petrova didn’t look away. “Focus. The Coalition needs you sharp, not… distracted. Unless you’d rather Doctor Rysia carry you out of here again like last time. We don’t have time for a scene.”
The memory lanced through her—the feel of Rysia’s strong arms under her knees and back, the quiet, pitying stares of the other junior officers, the long walk of shame from this very room. The regression therapy was supposed to help, Rysia said. To reduce the stress, to manage the outbursts of temper that came with the EI. It just felt like being broken down, turned into something helpless.
“No, ma’am,” Nova muttered, the words tight. She locked her muscles, fighting a fresh, urgent wave of pressure. The crinkle was louder in her own ears now. She saw one of the logistics officers, a man named Haas, glance briefly at her chair, then quickly away, a flicker of poorly concealed disdain on his face.
The briefing ground on. Petrova moved to potential artillery placements. Nova tried to absorb it, but her world had narrowed to a desperate, internal battle. The wars she fought were never just on the field. They were here, in this chair, against her own frayed nervous system. She was a decorated Mechwarrior, a killer of men and machines, and she was moments away from wetting herself in front of her command staff.
She wasn’t a woman here. She was a weapon with a catastrophic design flaw.
“Dismissed,” Petrova finally said. “Drop ship prep in ninety. Nova. A word.”
The room cleared with a scrape of chairs and low murmurs. Haas gave her a wide berth. Nova remained seated, terrified that standing would reveal everything. The large holotable fizzed and went dark, leaving the two of them in the sudden, sterile quiet.
Petrova rounded the table, her boots clicking on the polished floor. She stopped a few feet away, not crowding her, but not offering distance either. “Report.”
“I’m fine, Commander.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Lieutenant. You’re swimming over there. Is it the mission? The canyon op has you spooked?”
“No.” The denial was automatic. The canyon didn’t spook her. This did. The loss of control. The infantilization. “It’s… the EI feedback. It’s worse after a recent link-severance. You know that.”
“I do.” Petrova crossed her arms. “Rysia’s reports say you’re resisting the therapy. Skipping sessions. Ignoring the… protocols.”
The protocols. The scheduled potty breaks. The pull-ups. The humiliating, patronizing routine.
“The therapy makes me foggy,” Nova argued, a spark of her famous temper flaring. “I can’t pilot razor-sharp if I’m chewing on a goddamn teether and being sung lullabies.”
“You can’t pilot at all if you’re court-martialed for assaulting a tech or flooding the command chair,” Petrova shot back, her voice hardening. “You think I enjoy this? You’re the best pilot I have. Your Razorfalcon’s kill count is the only thing keeping High Command from decommissioning this entire frontline unit. But you’re a liability waiting to happen, Nova. A volcano in a child’s body.”
The words child’s body hung in the air. Petit, fragile, broken. Everything Nova fought against every single day.
“Rysia’s methods are extreme,” Petrova conceded, her tone softening a fraction. “But her intention is to keep you in the cockpit. My intention is to win this war. Our goals align. So you will report to her after prep. You will follow her program. And you will get your goddamn head in the game for this drop.” She leaned in slightly. “The Durgan Canyon is a meat grinder. I need you mean. I need you focused. Not… this.”
Nova looked at the floor, defeated. The warmth between her legs was a cold shame in her gut. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” Petrova straightened. “Now, go get cleaned up. And Nova?” She waited until Nova met her eyes. “The next time you’re in my briefing and that desperate, you are dismissed. No questions. Your pride isn’t worth a tactical error. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Petrova gave a short, sharp nod and strode out, leaving Nova alone in the cavernous, humming room.
Slowly, painfully, Nova pushed herself up. The uniform pants were damp, clingy. The evidence was undeniable. She stood there for a long moment, listening to the distant thrum of the carrier ship’s engines through the deck plates, the weight of her own fragility crushing down on her.
Then she turned and walked, each step a quiet confession, toward the officers’ quarters and the one person who claimed she could fix this. The mission clock was ticking, a countdown in her mind. Somewhere, in the dark of space, an enemy waited. And here she was, a weapon of war, heading to her nursery.
The walk through the sterile, gray hallway felt longer than any march to a dropship. The synthetic fabric of her uniform pants clung to her skin, a cold, shameful reminder with every step. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the occasional passing crewmember. Their eyes felt like lasers on her back, but she knew it was mostly in her head. Everyone had their own pre-drop jitters. Hers were just… wetter.
She keyed in the code to her quarters, the door hissing open to reveal not just her Spartan bunk, but Rysia. The doctor was already there, her back to the door, setting something out on the narrow desk. A fresh uniform, a towel, a sealed pack of wipes. And, of course, the thick, plastic-backed mat that was supposed to go on the bed.
“Cutting it a bit fine today, weren’t we?” Rysia said without turning around. Her voice was calm, pleasant even. It made Nova’s teeth grind.
“The briefing ran long.” Nova stepped inside, the door sealing shut behind her with a definitive thunk. The click of the lock sounded like a cage.
“Mhm.” Rysia finally turned. She was a decade older than Petrova, with a sturdy, practical frame and eyes that missed nothing. Her gaze went straight to Nova’s pants, to the darkened, tell-tale patch on the olive-drab fabric. There was no judgment in her look, only a quiet, clinical assessment. That was worse. “Come on. Let’s get you sorted before you chafe.”
“I can handle it,” Nova snapped, her temper flashing hot. She moved toward the small attached head, a closet with a toilet and sink.
Rysia’s hand was on her arm, not grabbing, just a firm, steadying pressure. “You could. But the protocol is clear after an accident. It’s part of the re-grounding process. To reinforce the care cycle.”
“The care cycle is bullshit.” Nova tried to pull away, but Rysia’s grip was implacable. She was stronger than she looked, a fact that never failed to send a confusing tremor through Nova—a mix of resentment and something else, something she refused to name.
“Maybe,” Rysia said evenly, steering Nova toward the bed, not the head. “But your CNS disagrees. Your amygdala is practically screaming. The EI link didn’t just break your bladder control, Lieutenant. It rewired your stress responses. You need predictable, structured aftercare to counter the volatility. Petrova knows it. You know it, too, somewhere under all that pride.” She guided Nova to sit on the edge of the mattress. “Now, arms up.”
Nova sat, paralyzed by a toxic stew of humiliation and a strange, creeping lethargy. The fight was draining out of her, leaving only a hollow, childlike embarrassment. Slowly, she raised her arms.
Rysia worked with efficient, gentle motions. She peeled the damp uniform jacket off, then the sweat-stained undershirt. The cool air of the quarters hit Nova’s skin, raising goosebumps. Then Rysia’s hands went to her belt, the fastenings of her pants.
“Don’t,” Nova whispered, looking away at the riveted wall.
“It’s just me,” Rysia said softly, her tone shifting from clinician to something almost… maternal. “It’s okay to let go.”
The pants were eased down, the sodden briefs with them. Nova squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the rustle of disposal, the rip of the wipe packet, the efficient, impersonal cleaning. She felt exposed, reduced to a body, to a problem to be managed. Yet, under the shame, there was a terrible, undeniable relief. The secret was out. The burden of hiding it, gone.
“See? All done.” Rysia’s voice was closer now. A fresh, plain white brief was slipped up her legs, settled around her hips. They were the kind meant for toddlers, thick and absorbent. The uniform pants followed, clean and dry. “Now, the onesie. Arms up again.”
“No. Absolutely not.” Nova opened her eyes, defiance flashing. The one-piece garment Rysia held was soft gray cotton, stamped with a faded Coalition logo. It was unmistakably infantile, with snaps at the crotch. It was the ultimate symbol of her regression.
“It’s part of the pre-drop calm-down protocol. No arguing.” Rysia’s expression brooked no debate. “You need the physical reminder to slip into a more restful state. Your brain needs the signal that you’re safe, so your body can stop fighting itself.”
“I’m not a baby,” Nova hissed, even as her arms, tired and heavy, lifted again.
The soft fabric slipped over her head. Rysia guided her arms through, then smoothed it down over her torso. Her hands were warm and sure, fastening the snaps between Nova’s legs with a series of soft pops. Each one was a lock clicking shut. When she was done, she gently pushed Nova back to lie on the bed. The plastic mat crinkled softly beneath her.
“There. Just rest for a bit. I’ll be right here.”
Rysia pulled a lightweight blanket over her. It was then that Nova noticed the doctor had a data slate in her hand, and a small, soft stuffed toy—a worn dog—was now tucked against Nova’s side. The toy smelled faintly of clean linen and something calming, like lavender.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nova said, her voice thick.
“Sensory anchor,” Rysia said, sitting in the room’s single chair. She began to read from the slate, her voice dropping into a soft, rhythmic monotone. It was a technical manual on reactor-core safety protocols. The words were complex, dry, but her delivery was slow and even. A familiar, strange calm began to seep into Nova’s bones. Her angry, skittering thoughts began to slow, to untangle.
This was the part she hated most. And the part she secretly, desperately needed. The complete surrender. The abdication of choice. She wasn’t Lieutenant Nova, Mechwarrior. She was just… Nova. Being cared for.
She turned her head into the pillow, her cheeks burning. The blush spread from her face down her neck, a hot, mortifying wave under the soft cotton of the onesie. It wasn't just anger. It was the shameful, secret thrill of it. Of being known, in this utterly degraded way, and being accepted. Of the fight being over.
Rysia saw the blush. She didn’t comment. She just kept reading, her voice a steady lighthouse in the fog of Nova’s pride. The crinkle of the mat, the sound of the doctor’s voice, the feel of the stuffed toy under her hand—it all wove a net beneath her, holding the fragmentation at bay.
Nova closed her eyes. In ninety minutes, she would be a god of war again, a fury sealed in forty-five tons of molten firepower. But for now, she was just this. Blushing, safe, and desperately, utterly still.
The calm was a shallow pool. The rhythmic drone of Rysia’s voice, the softness of the blanket, the childish cotton against her skin—it held her fractured pieces together, but barely. Beneath it, a counter-clock ticked in her skull, a metronome synced to the carrier’s engines. Ninety minutes. Eighty-nine. Eighty-eight.
A ship-wide chime shattered the stillness, sharp and professional. “All Durgan Canyon personnel, report to Hangar Bay Three for final gear checks and pilot-link sync. Mission prep begins in T-minus sixty minutes.”
The words were a bucket of cold water. Nova’s eyes flew open. The stuffed toy felt absurd, obscene. She flung it aside and swung her legs over the bed, the crinkle of the plastic mat loud in the sudden silence.
Rysia set her data slate down with a soft click. “Time’s up,” she said, not unkindly. “Can you walk it off?”
Nova stood, the room tilting for a second. The onesie felt ludicrous now, a cruel joke. “I have to get to my Razorfalcon.”
“I know.” Rysia stood and opened a small locker, pulling out Nova’s black, body-hugging cooling vest and neural interface shorts—the pilot’s base layer. “But you’re leaving this on.”
“What?” Nova stared at her, a fresh wave of heat flushing her face. “Under my gear? Are you insane? The techs, the loaders… they’ll see the seams. They’ll know.”
“They’ll see a pilot following medical protocol to manage EI feedback,” Rysia corrected, her voice firm. “This isn’t about your pride, Lieutenant. It’s about stability. You spiked into the red on the stress monitors during that briefing. The soft containment and the… subliminal reminder of a regulated care routine will keep you centered during the neural handshake.” She held out the sleek black garments. “It’s a pressure garment. Like a hug. It keeps the chaos in.”
Nova wanted to argue, to rip the snaps open herself. But the mission clock in her head was a deafening drum. She saw the logic, cold and surgical. A failure during link-up could mean a misfired salvo, a mistimed step, a dead squad. Her jaw tightened until it ached.
Wordlessly, she snatched the cooling vest and shorts from Rysia’s hands. She dressed over the onesie with brutal, efficient movements. The soft cotton disappeared under the matte black, high-tech fabric. She could still feel it, though. A whisper against her skin, a secret shame strapped tight beneath the armor of her duty.
“Good,” Rysia said. She handed Nova a capped hydration tube. “Drink. Full synch will dehydrate you.”
Nova sucked the electrolyte mix down, the taste faintly metallic. She tossed the empty container into the reclamator. “Happy?”
“I’ll be happy when you come back.” Rysia’s expression was unreadable. “Remember, the calm is in the surrender. Out there, you surrender to the machine. Let it hold you. Just like this.”
The words were a parasite in her ear as she left. The hallway to the hangar bay felt like a tunnel between worlds. With every step, she shed Nova-the-patient and assembled Lieutenant Steel, pilot of the Razorfalcon. By the time the massive blast doors of Hangar Bay Three hissed open, her gait had changed. Shoulders back, chin level, eyes forward. The faint, traitorous crinkle was buried under the hum of machinery and shouted orders.
The bay was organized chaos. Techs scurried around the legs of the towering BattleMechs like ants. The air smelled of scorched metal, volatile lubricants, and sweat. Her mech stood apart, at Bay Four. The Razorfalcon was a lighter, avian-class machine, its armor plating angled and predatory, painted in the harsh digital camo of the November Coalition. Its head, with a distinctive sharp sensor crest, looked down at her as she approached. Her giant metal bird.
“There she is!” A voice barked from beside the mech’s left foot. Sergeant Haas, the logistics officer from the briefing. He had a scanner in one hand, a smirk barely concealed. “Cutting it close, Lieutenant. We were about to send a search party to the nursery.”
A few nearby loaders snickered, quickly disguising it as coughs.
Nova stopped, turning her head slowly to look at him. She didn’t say a word. She just let the silence stretch, let the cold fury that usually churned deep inside her rise to the surface. It was a trick she’d learned. Her small stature and the rumors about her condition made people assume fragility. They saw a petite, broken girl. She let them see that, right up until the moment they saw the void in her eyes.
Haas’s smirk faded. He cleared his throat, looking back at his scanner. “Pre-flight checks are at ninety-eight percent. Reactor’s hot and clean. Your autocannon is loaded with standard HE, and the LRM racks are packed with swarmers. As requested.”
“Good,” Nova said, her voice flat. She walked past him, placing her palm on the cool, scored metal of the Razorfalcon’s foot. A familiar thrill, clean and sharp, cut through the shame. This was hers. This was where she was real.
She climbed the gantry to the cockpit hatch, each rung a move away from the girl in the onesie. The hatch opened with a hiss of equalizing pressure. The cockpit smelled of static, recycled air, and her own sweat from the last sortie. It was a smell like home.
She slid into the pilot’s couch, a molded carbon-fiber nest. The harness auto-wrapped around her, locking over her chest, her hips. The proximity made her hyper-aware of the soft, secret layer beneath her gear. She pushed the thought away.
She reached for the heavy, multi-cable neural interface helmet. It was cool in her hands. This was the moment of truth. The EI link wasn’t a gentle connection. It was a violent marriage, a hardwired synaptic blast.
She took a final, steadying breath. Surrender to the machine.
She slammed the helmet onto her head.
The world dissolved in a hurricane of light and noise.
A searing, white-hot needle of data stabbed through her optic nerve. The cockpit wasn’t just around her anymore; she was the cockpit. She felt the reactor’s heartthrob in her own chest, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated her teeth. The Razorfalcon’s sixty-ton weight settled into her bones. She smelled the ionized charge of the PPC capacitors through phantom nostrils. She saw in 360 degrees—a panoramic, color-shifted nightmare of the hangar bay, techs now rendered as glowing wireframe skeletons, heat signatures blooming across her vision.
SYSTEMS CHECK. ALL GREEN. The words burned across her mind, not her eyes.
A wave of nausea, the familiar wrench of dislocation, rolled through her. She clenched her jaw, riding it out. Her left hand found the primary control stick, her right dancing across the tactile feedback panels. She flexed the mech’s fingers. Outside, on the gantry, Haas and the others watched as the Razorfalcon’s massive right hand mirrored the movement, servos whining with a smooth, lethal grace.
“Neural handshake at ninety-four percent. Holding steady.” Her own voice, filtered through the coms, sounded alien in her ears—a calm, electronic goddess speaking from a storm.
Then, a new pressure. Different. A slow, warm release deep in her core, a total letting go. The EI link had triggered it, bypassing every shred of conscious control. The warmth spread, contained by the soft cotton, a stark, human contrast to the cold, hard data streaming into her brain.
For a second, humiliation threatened to flood the connection, to spike her stress readings. But it didn’t. Instead, a perverse, dark calm solidified within her. Rysia was right. It was surrender. Out here, in the metal womb of her mech, she was both more and less than human. The shame was just another piece of data, acknowledged and compartmentalized.
She was the weapon now. Primed. Loaded.
A sharp, priority channel crackled in her ear. Petrova’s voice. “Razorfalcon, report.”
Nova watched, through the mech’s external cameras, as a loader scurried clear. Her voice was pure ice when she replied.
“Razorfalcon is live. I am ready to drop.”