Chapter 14: Nova's breath comes in short, ragged gasps as she traces the outline of a glittery rainbow someone - Haas, it had to be Haas - had painted over her mech's cockpit. The humiliation burns worse than plasma fire when the morning shift techs start filtering in, their poorly-hidden smirks and whispers about 'diaper decorations' making her vision swim with unshed tears.
The morning shift klaxon was a dull throb in Nova’s skull, a distant cousin to the alert sirens of battle. She stood at the entrance to Mech Bay Three, her boots feeling glued to the deck plating. Rysia’s firm hand was between her shoulder blades, a silent, immovable pressure propelling her forward.
“Deep breath,” Rysia murmured, her voice low. “It’s just paint.”
It wasn’t just paint. It was a crime scene.
The harsh, antiseptic light of the bay fell upon her Razorfalcon, and Nova’s stomach executed a perfect, nauseating flip. The vandalism was comprehensive. Haas hadn’t just defaced a panel; he had perfumed the entire machine. Vile, glossy pink butterflies with exaggerated eyelashes swarmed up its legs. Grinning, simplistic puppies with bows chased each other around missile launcher housings. Rainbows arced stupidly over reactor vents. Clumsy yellow stars dotted the cockpit canopy like a child’s fever dream.
The kill marks—her twelve sharp, white lightning bolts—were now surrounded by this absurd, cheerful garden. The message was vicious, brilliant: This is what you really are. A joke. A infant playing with a giant’s toys.
A low whine escaped her, pure distress, animal and uncontrolled. She took an involuntary step back, directly into Rysia’s solid frame.
“Hey, kid! Like the new livery? Gives it some personality, right?”
Haas. He leaned against a tool cart, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin splitting his face. He looked exhausted, shadows like bruises under his eyes, specks of pink paint still clinging to his knuckles and forearms. But his expression was one of profound, deep-seated satisfaction. He’d paid his dues, worked through the night, and now he got to reap the reward: her reaction.
Nova’s hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. The fury was instant, a geyser of black heat that rose up her throat. It choked her, stealing her words, leaving only a tremor that started in her knees and rattled her teeth.
“You miserable worm,” she finally spat, the voice not quite her own, ragged and too high.
“Whoa, language,” Haas chuckled, pushing off the cart and taking a few steps closer. He smelled of sweat and enamel paint. “The Commander thought it looked a little too grim. Wanted to brighten the place up. I’m just following orders. You got a problem, take it up with her.”
He was daring her. He wanted the explosion, the confirmation that she was as unstable as the file said. Nova took a shuddering step towards him, the movement all jerky aggression. She didn’t know what she would do—scream, scratch, maybe just shake apart right there on the oily deck.
A broad, grease-stained figure moved into her path, blocking her line of sight to Haas.
Jax.
He didn’t touch her, just planted himself firmly, arms loose at his sides. His usual lazy humor was absent, replaced by a weathered patience. “Easy, Nova,” he said, his voice calm and quiet, meant only for her. “Look at me. Not him.”
“He ruined it,” she hissed, trying to look around Jax’s shoulder. The garish colors swam in her vision.
“It’s paint. It’ll strip. The frame’s fine. The actuators are fine.” Jax held her gaze. “The mech is a tool. It’s the pilot that matters. He knows that. This is for him, not for you. Don’t give him the show.”
“But it’s mine,” she whispered, the childlike protest escaping before she could lock it down. The humiliation was a physical weight, moist and hot behind her eyes.
“And you’re still its pilot,” Jax countered. “Rainbows and all.”
The main bay entrance hissed open. Commander Petrova walked in, her stride efficient, datapad in hand. Her sharp eyes took in the scene: Nova trembling before Jax, Haas watching with predatory glee, Rysia standing sentinel a few paces back. Her gaze flicked to the Razorfalcon, a cacophony of cartoonish color under the work lights. Her expression did not change.
She walked right up to the mech, as if inspecting a standard maintenance report. She tapped her datapad against the pink-flanked leg. “Specialist Haas. The work is… thorough. Dismissed. Get some chow. You look like hell.”
Haas’s grin widened. He threw a mocking salute at Nova’s back and sauntered off, his boots echoing.
Petrova then turned to Nova. “Pilot. You have a simulator run at 0830. Canyon sweep scenario, same parameters as yesterday’s engagement. Suit up.”
Nova stared at her, disbelief cutting through the humiliation. “Sir? You… you’re leaving it like this?”
“Is there a structural issue I’m unaware of?” Petrova asked, a faint, coldly polite lilt to her voice. “Has the paint compromised armor integrity? Sensor arrays?”
“No, but—”
“But it’s embarrassing,” Petrova finished for her, closing the distance. She was shorter than Nova, but her presence carved the space around them into something formal and severe. “It looks ridiculous. It undermines your authority. Is that the summary?”
Nova nodded mutely, heat flooding her cheeks.
“A Mechwarrior must be prepared to fight her machine in any condition,” Petrova stated, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Mud, blood, battle-damage, or… decorative alterations. The enemy will not postpone an attack because you find your paint scheme personally offensive. Your effectiveness cannot be contingent on your pride.”
“It’s not pride,” Nova argued, though it was exactly that, raw and shredded. “It’s… they’re laughing at me. Every time I walk out here.”
“Let them laugh,” Petrova said, her gaze icy. “Then incinerate them in the sim. Let the performance data be your rebuttal. The sim pod doesn’t have a mirror, Pilot. You won’t have to look at the butterflies.”
She saw the refusal hardening in Nova’s eyes, the smoldering defiance. Petrova leaned in, her voice dropping to a tone so quiet only Nova and Rysia could hear. “Here is your choice. You board the simulator in your Razorfalcon’s current configuration, and you complete the run to minimum proficiency standards. Or…”
She paused, letting the threat hang in the oil-scented air.
“You refuse, and you are declared temporarily unfit for mech operation. Your uniform will be requisitioned by Specialist Rysia. Your attire for the remainder of the day will be issued from the specially-allocated stores in her quarters.” Petrova’s eyes were flint. “The fleece-lined onesie, I believe it is. With the reinforced seams and the integrated padding. You will wear it until you decide to complete the sim run. In the mech. As it is.”
The world telescoped down to a single, horrifying point. The onesie. The ultimate surrender. It wasn’t a garment; it was a state of being. Padding, softness, containment. The physical manifestation of everything she was forced to accept in Rysia’s room, dragged out into the unforgiving light of the ship’scommon areas. It would be a walking billboard of her regression, far worse than any painted puppy.
She glanced desperately at Rysia, seeking an ally, a mitigator. Rysia’s face was a mask of professional neutrality, but her eyes held a faint, undeniable warning. She would enforce it. She would do it without malice, with that devastating, gentle efficiency, and that made it worse.
Nova’s defiance crumpled. The fight leaked out of her, leaving her hollow and cold. The anger at Haas, the shame of the paint—they were currencies she couldn’t spend here. Petrova had called the bet with a stake Nova couldn’t cover.
“I… understand, Commander,” she whispered, the words ash in her mouth.
“Good. Jax, you’re running OPFOR. Try not to let the decorations distract you.” Petrova gave a final, unreadable look at the monstrosity of the Razorfalcon, then turned and left the bay, her steps precise and echoing.
Jax blew out a long breath. “Right. Okay then.” He clapped Nova lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, killer. Let’s go get mocked by a computer.”
The walk to her mech was a procession of shame. Every technician, every loader passing by did a double-take. Snickers were hastily stifled. Whispers cut off as she passed. She kept her eyes fixed on the cockpit ladder, her vision blurring.
Rysia accompanied her to the base of the gantry. “Remember the breath,” she said, her voice low. “The machine is the same. You are the same. The input is the same. The output is the same. The color of the shell is irrelevant data.”
Nova didn’t answer. She hauled herself up the rungs, each movement mechanical. The cockpit, when she slid into the familiar, worn seat, was a sanctuary. She could close the canopy, seal out the world. But as the systems powered up, the holographic display activated, and the external feed flickered to life, the view was wrong. The edges of her vision were framed in a nauseating pink glow, a reminder projected onto her retinas.
She initiated the neural handshake. The EI link crashed into her with its usual violent intimacy, the Razorfalcon’s systems becoming an extension of her nervous system. The raw power was there, the targeting matrix, the feeling of sixty tons of potential energy in her limbs. But the self-image the link fed back to her primal brain was dissonant. It felt… silly. Weakened.