Chapter Text
It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
Everything had gone so very wrong, so very fast.
It was supposed to be a simple mission. Quick. In and out. Ambush and destroy a small nondescript IMC facility on some backwater Frontier rock. How could they have known the IMC was hiding something? The recon team had made a terrible mistake, and now people were paying the price.
Vance Morgan cursed the recon team, cursed the IMC, cursed himself—cursed anyone he could think of—as he bled out in the cockpit of his Titan. His partner. Or was he about to become his executioner, like the other Titans Vance had watched turn on their own Pilots?
“Please stay calm, Pilot,” came the deep rumble of WR-9358. “You are in shock, but you must administer first aid. Your condition is critical.”
Vance didn’t respond. The memory was still raw: his squadmate dragged screaming from her cockpit, crushed to pulp in the fist of the Titan she trusted. Maybe if he stayed silent, War would forget he was there.
“You must snap out of it, Morgan!”
That cut through. His Titan had only ever used his last name a handful of times since they’d known each other. Now his tone was different—pleading. War never pleaded.
Vance’s chest tightened. No. War wouldn’t kill him. If he wanted to, he already would have.
“Pilot!”
“Okay, okay,” Vance muttered. He pushed his sniper rifle off his lap, the long weapon rattling in the cramped cockpit. It should have sounded loud, but everything was muffled, distant. He knew he was on the verge of blacking out, and panic jolted him awake.
Blood-slick hands tore open the compartment under his seat. A box with a red cross tumbled out. He fumbled it open, spilling supplies across his lap as War barreled forward, the cockpit shaking violently. A Legion-class Titan was never meant to sprint; the movement was ungainly, awkward, throwing Vance against his seat.
He found wound sealant, pressure bandages, and a stim. The stim he held between his teeth while he tore open his suit, exposing the bloody hole in his lower back and the exit wound at his abdomen. At least it had gone through. No digging for bullets. Nothing vital struck—he hoped.
Sealant hissed against his torn flesh. Glue smeared clumsily across both sides. Bandages tightened automatically, compressing until he hissed through his teeth. He grabbed the stim next.
He hesitated. The injector would keep him awake, sharp enough to fight. But the price was steep. When it wore off, he would crash into a dead weight—coma-like exhaustion. He needed painkillers, not combat drugs. But painkillers would drop him unconscious in seconds.
Unconscious now, or unconscious later.
He chose later. Grimacing, he jabbed the stim into his thigh. Energy seared through him. His body snapped taut, nerves alive, vision sharp. He felt unstoppable.
And now, with clarity, he finally heard it: the explosions outside. The squeal of metal. The pounding of hostile fire hammering War’s armor.
“Sitrep!” Vance barked, training overriding fear.
“Infantry has surrounded me and are attempting to cut off my escape.” War’s voice carried relief at his Pilot’s return. The Titan staggered under a rocket barrage. “My shields are gone. Armor is failing.”
“Any hostile Titans?” Vance’s eyes raced down the scrolling reports. He didn’t take manual control. War didn’t offer. They both knew he was in no shape to pilot.
“Negative. No IMC Titans detected.”
Vance’s stomach clenched. That matched what he’d already guessed. After what he’d witnessed—the IMC’s new weapon—of course they wouldn’t risk their own Titans nearby. Not if the device could turn them rabid.
“Can we signal the ship?”
“Negative.”
“Damn it.” The jamming had been up since the fight began. Only short-range comms worked, which meant Vance had been forced to hear his squadmates’ screams as their Titans murdered them. He shoved the guilt down. Later. Later, if he lived.
“Pilot,” War added, “I can no longer detect Pyrrhus in orbit. IMC vessels appeared as I retreated. Pyrrhus was shot down.”
No extraction. No escape. Eventually the Militia might send a rescue party, but not soon. Typhon’s chaos had pulled Militia forces thin across the Frontier.
“So we’re on our own,” Vance said grimly. He didn’t bother asking about survivors. He already knew.
“Until reinforcements arrive, yes.”
Another explosion rocked them. Warning lights screamed: hull breach imminent. Ahead, IMC armor blocked the road. War charged through them, crushing steel underfoot, but more vehicles closed in, circling.
“I can’t take much more, Pilot.” War’s voice lowered, heavy with guilt. “We need a new plan.”
Vance scanned the damage readouts. Too much focus on the legs. They didn’t want to kill War. They wanted him alive. Captured.
Not an option.
“Head for the mountain on the left,” he ordered.
War obeyed instantly, stomping a truck flat as he swerved course.
“Do you have a plan?”
“I do. Dicey one.” Pain lanced his side. The stim was already thinning. Not yet. Just a few more minutes. “Look for caves at the base. Find one big enough—and not a dead end.”
Scanners swept. Another barrage hit, knocking War to his knees. “Hull integrity below thirty percent. Left leg compromised.”
“Damn it!” Vance slammed a fist against the console, clutching his wound with the other. “We’re almost there! Just move!”
War rose, limping. The IMC closed around them. Too tight. Too close.
“Open the hatch!” Vance yelled.
“Pil—”
“Do it! Don’t stop running!”
The hatch cracked open. Vance leapt, grapple hooking an airship. He soared upward, free for an instant, before bullets screamed past. He lobbed grenades into barricades below, forcing soldiers to scatter, sowing panic.
He hit the ground with a stumble, jumpkit softening the fall. Pain flared; his wounds were tearing open again. A soldier raised a rifle. Vance lunged, fist smashing into his jaw, ripping the weapon free and spraying fire blindly into the crowd. Accuracy didn’t matter—only distraction. The addition of the smaller, faster Pilot in the skirmish sowed chaos and confusion among the soldiers–they had to split their attention between the two.
War’s shadow fell over him. The Titan’s fists swung, tossing trucks aside like toys. Vance sprinted, lungs burning. Together, they were almost at the caves.
He leapt for War’s open palm—but slipped. Pain tore through him. He didn’t even feel War catch him, didn’t register being lowered gently back into the cockpit. Then War plunged into the cave, scraping walls as boulders collapsed behind them. His impact into the walls was calculated and purposeful. Tons of rock thundered down, sealing the entrance. Silence fell, heavy as the dark.
War crouched inside, sensors confirming safety. He looked to his Pilot. Vance sat slumped, bandages soaked, stim burning out, body trembling.
“Pilot,” War said softly.
A groan. Barely conscious.
“I am removing you from the cockpit. You need rest.”
The hatch opened. Vance spilled into War’s hands, limp. The Titan laid him on the flattest stone he could find. Vance moaned at the hardness, causing War to wish futilely for a blanket.
“War!” Vance gasped suddenly, eyes wide.
“Yes, Pilot?” War crouched lower.
Vance’s gaze was wild, unseeing, as if the nightmare still played before him. For an instant, War feared he would bolt again. Then his face softened, breaking into sorrow.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispered.
“I will never leave you,” War answered. His voice rumbled like a vow. He cupped his Pilot protectively, warmth radiating from his palm.
Vance’s eyes shut, his body loosening as sleep claimed him at last.
Two Hours Before
“I need better covering fire, now!”
“I’m working on it!” Vance snapped his bolt open, chambering another round. He lined up a soldier wielding an anti-Titan cannon and dropped him with a single shot. His rifle clacked empty again. He cursed.
War whirled, Predator cannon screaming.
“Pilot, enemy units are closing on our position. I advise relocation.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Vance muttered, focusing on another target. He was balanced precariously on War’s back, Kraber braced against the Titan’s chassis. Normally impossible. For them, routine. War paused by instinct, millisecond-long, just enough for Vance’s shot to land.
But the IMC kept pouring in. Too many. The battle was slipping.
“This is getting real bad,” Chase’s voice snapped over comms. Vance spotted him through the scope—his Ronin cutting soldiers down with reckless fury before rockets forced retreat.
“This op is fubar,” Forte, their leader, barked. “Fall back now! Spitter, what’s your status?”
“Not good,” Vance growled. “They’re surrounding us.”
“Then hold them off!”
Vance snarled, forcing calm. Their squad depended on him and War to hold the line. He sighted the compound gate—and froze.
“They’re bringing out a Titan,” he said.
A Tone-class staggered forward. Limping. Exposed, stripped bare. No cockpit. No Pilot.
Cables tethered it to a wheeled device, radar-dish shaped, bristling wires. Techs swarmed. The dish rotated toward the battlefield.
“They have a new weapon!” Vance shouted. “You need to move—now!”
Energy surged down the cables. The air shimmered. The gutted Titan collapsed.
Then Chase’s Ronin faltered mid-run. Vance heard his scream over comms. The Titan seized its sword, blade-first, and drove it through its own chassis, killing both Pilot and machine.
The comms lit with screams.
Zinc was ripped out of her Ion by her own Titan and crushed like fruit. Another Pilot trampled. Forte bailed, rifle trembling. “KZ, stand down!” His Scorch advanced anyway, halting, rigid. Vance couldn’t hear its words—but Forte’s reply came broken, desperate: “I trusted you.”
Then flames consumed him.
“What the—” Vance toppled backward off War’s back in shock.
He looked up. War had turned toward him. And for the first time, Vance saw Titans the way soldiers did: as monsters. Two stories of armor and firepower towering over a man.
“Pilot,” War began.
“Stay back!” Vance screamed. He scuttled away, clutching his rifle. War hesitated, hand extended.
“No!” Vance bolted. He had forgotten about the enemy soldiers around him–his sole goal was to run away from the machine that he had once believed was a friend. Panic raced through him. What if Titans weren’t corrupted? What if they’d been freed?
He ran and blundered into IMC soldiers. “I found the Pilot!” one shouted. Vance turned back—straight into War.
He froze. This was it. Death at his partner’s hands.
A bullet struck his back. He collapsed, teeth rattling as War’s foot slammed beside him. Predator cannon spun. A roar of gunfire. Screams cut short.
Then silence.
War’s hand scooped him up. Vance struggled once, then sagged. He kept his eyes shut, trembling. “I will not harm you,” War said gently. “My Protocols remain intact. You are my Pilot. I will protect you with my life.”
Vance only shook, refusing to believe. It’s a lie. A trick.
“I know you doubt me,” War went on. “But we must flee before the IMC closes in. You are in grave danger.”
Carefully, War lowered him back into the cockpit. Then they ran—away from the battlefield, away from the massacre.
Not away from the nightmare lodged in Vance’s mind.