“So. You said you're a member of the, er... Pilots Union, correct?”
The attendant manning the Syntech-branded registration kiosk uttered the words haltingly, a dark pall of immense disbelief coloring his tone. Stifling a discreet sniff of incredulity, the man carefully adjusted the glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose before glancing up from his digital log book.
Yes, she was indeed still there— a young woman in a disheveled military uniform, complete with smoking cigarette dangling from her lip, leaning heavily against his booth. The attendant gave her an affronted glare, disdainfully taking note of her elbows brazenly propped up on the counter.
"Yeah," the woman gruffed, exhaling the words in a puff of acrid smoke. "Totally. I have the uniform and everything, don't I?"
An oddly
naughty smirk curved her lips as she turned, revealing the Pilots Union insignia emblazoned on the back of her flight jacket. It was partly shredded, evidently a souvenir from some close call or another, the flame-resistant material hanging like tattered wings across her shoulder blades and blackened by a sticky layer of ash.
Yet, by far the strangest thing about her appearance was that it appeared she was wearing a completely
different uniform beneath the jacket! Dressed head to foot in hues of purple, black and gray, only her dusky brown skin and vibrantly-colored hair broke the painful monotony— although the booth attendant supposed he shouldn’t judge, considering his own violently purple uniform… not to mention the booty shorts and cowrie shell necklace.
Hmm-ing softly under his breath, the man eyed his visitor cautiously, his gaze slipping from her torn garments to the glowing screen of his tablet. His brows knitted together as if in deep contemplation, the cogs of his mind working feverishly.
“Riiiight," the man intoned with a sigh of defeat, though he began to peck away at his infernal device. He adjusted the rims of his spectacles once more as he made ready to capture the contestant's information, tapping his stylus against the tablet's hard plastic casing. "And what is your... mecha serial number?”
"4206669," came the immediate reply, not even skipping a beat.
“…”
Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, the man turned his gaze heavenward, beseeching. Sadly, however, it seemed no divine intervention was forthcoming... at least not for "Jake," as the attendant's nametag proclaimed his name to be in slightly-smudged Sharpie. Bummer.
The woman spoke up again, her voice pitching louder and growing more melodramatic with every word. Jake didn't know
why she did it. It wasn't like there was anyone else
around— not here, in this forgotten, decaying neighborhood on the furthest outskirts of Markov, where crumbling buildings and deserted streets bore testament to a bygone era of industrial enlightenment.
"Sorry. It was my— uh —my
father’s ID number," the alleged 'pilot' hastily swept a tear from the corner of her eye, flicking it away with the pad of her thumb. “He meant everything to me, you see. Died during the Siege, a terrible and fiery crash... very traumatic for us all. I’m taking up his mantle. You understand."
"Right," Jake nodded his head slowly in a mindless bobble, finally deigning to type the...
unique identification number into the registration system. “And how long
have you been a pilot, if you don't mind my asking?”
A lofty sigh hissed from between the woman's teeth, tinged with enough barbed pinpricks of impatience to make even a porcupine a touch insecure. "Ever since the Siege,
duh. Y'know, after my mother was shot down and killed—"
Lifting a hand to silence her, the attendant glanced up, lips pursed. The faint glow from the tablet perfectly illuminated the skeptical arch of his eyebrows, his forehead creasing in befuddlement. "Hold on. I thought you said that your
father died in the Siege."
The young woman coolly regarded him with a slow, cat-like blink.
"Oh, yeah. Well, my mom got slagged, too.” She slanted a strange, slightly manic grin his way, a cloud of nicotine-laced smoke swirling around her head in a gritty parody of a halo. “I’m an
orphan!”
“... Okay.” That settled, Jake's attention returned to his tablet, his grip gone white-knuckled around it. Honestly, it was a wonder the protective casing didn't crack. “And you said you had your
own mech prepped to bring to the contest?”
“You betcha. Riiiiight over there,” the pilot gestured loosely, waving an irreverent hand towards a large, angular shadow lurking over her shoulder in the near distance.
Jake blinked, gaze darting to track the movement. His beady little eyes squinted behind the thick lenses of his glasses, then widened slightly in surprise.
"
Weird," the attendant muttered under his breath. "That definitely wasn't there a moment ago."
That being the jet that had seemingly materialized out of thin air behind the pilot, its body gleaming with a sleek black and purple finish that shone in stark contrast to the yellow-tinted glass of its cockpit. Needless to say, the thing's flashy paintjob stood out remarkably well against the dingy, rubbish-littered street behind it. There was absolutely
no way he could've missed it arriving there— right?
There was a tense pause as Jake fully processed the sight before him. Seconds ticked by, stretching out into an eternity of unsettling silence.
"That's... just a plane," Jake uttered at last, genuine confusion writ upon his face.
Wham! The woman sneered, pounding her fist on the booth with an emphatic thump so loud and unexpected that it nearly made Jake topple backwards in alarm.
"That's not just any plane, buddy. It's a
jet. Supersonic," the young pilot snapped. She tapped the side of her forehead with her free hand, shooting him a wink. "That means
fast."
Jake swallowed, struggling to find enough saliva for the task after being so thoroughly startled. His heart beat wildly inside his chest as he grappled with the sudden tightness in his throat, abruptly unsure of how to proceed. This woman seemed... well,
unstable didn't quite do her justice, so just plain
nuts would have to do.
Finally gathering enough of his wits, Jake cleared his throat. “Um. My sincerest apologies, ma'am,” he explained, gingerly choosing his words. “But Mr. Jak's competition is strictly for mecha and kaiju only.”
“Yeah, I
know. What, d'you think I'm stupid or something?" the pilot replied, rolling her eyes like
he was the unreasonable one. "Watch
this.”
And then, with a deafening sound like shattering glass, the jet
exploded outward— breaking apart into many distinct, glinting pieces. Out of its wildly-shifting entrails rose an enormous mechanical figure, standing some thirty feet tall, its massive pair of wings casting long shadows up and down the deserted street. It towered over the pair of humans in its purple-and-black livery, the yellow-tinted cockpit window adorning its chest flashing in the predawn light. What’s more, its arms appeared to be outfitted with gigantic
machine guns, and its feet were spiked upwards like high-heeled shoes, only elevating the mech's immense stature.
The giant robot’s optics glowed a menacing red as it glared down at Jake with pure hatred. Or, at least Jake
thought the thing's crimson optics were burning with hatred. Honestly, it was kind of difficult to tell.
But that wasn't all that snagged the registration attendant's attention.
An unfamiliar insignia was painted on the looming mech's wings in brilliant purple, though it appeared lightly chipped and weathered from age. The emblem's sharp edges almost seemed to glower in their menacing hostility, the triangular eyes and spiked crown only serving to further its regal evilessence.
Brushing aside his bone-shaking terror for the moment, Jake had the wherewithal to squint and point at it. “That’s… not the Pilots Union logo.”
Shoulders tensing, the woman glanced over her shoulder at the mech. Her expression slackened in momentary realization, a flash of panic zapping over her features, before her eyes narrowed to cunning slits.
"Oh, that? That’s just, like my… personal calling card. Yeah," she said, lips quirking in a tense smile. "Like those... skin-things. What’re they called?"
"Er. You mean
tattoos?" Jake suggested, bemused.
"YES!" the pilot snapped her fingers with a sharp crack, making the booth attendant jump. She pointed at him, fingers most disconcertingly miming the shape of a gun. "
Tattoos. That's right, must've slipped my mind."
“Right..." Jake muttered, curt. Lightly shaking his head, he returned his attention to the screen of his tablet. "And your name, please?”
The young woman grinned, her eyes seeming especially bright despite the yellow-tinted lenses of her sunglasses. “Skylar Watari. But my friends just call me Warp.”
There was a pause as Jake dutifully typed in her name on his tablet, eyes glued to the screen. Then, he frowned, silent bewilderment painted on his face. A beat passed, until finally he sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache.
"I gotta level with you, Miss Watari," Jake began, planting his tablet on the booth face-up, tidily displaying the public record of registered pilots. He fixed her with a stern glare. "I have a... let's call it a
hunch, that you aren't being entirely truthful with me. That plane— it obviously doesn't belong to the Pilots Union, and your flight jacket's
shredded to bits. Definitely not regulation. And hell, it doesn't even
fit you correctly. Now, while operating under a false identity isn't exactly
discouraged by Mr. Jak, claiming affiliation with an existent faction and intentionally misrepresenting them is where things get... sticky. And now, I find that your name isn't even on the record!"
Almost as quickly as it had appeared, Skylar's jovial expression evaporated like a puff of smoke, leaving behind a much more menacing countenance. She jabbed a finger at the tablet, furiously shaking her head. "Nah, nah. Check again."
Jake sighed. This could get ugly.
"Now, Miss Watari. I can assure you, I already checked quite thoroughly—"
"Maybe you
misheard me, slag-for-brains," growled Skylar, her lips pulled back to expose her teeth: a menacing parody of her earlier cheer. "
Check. It. Again."
With quivering hands, Jake examined the record once more.
"O-oh, my mistake," he stammered, chuckling nervously as he stabbed his finger at the tablet. "
There you are. Watari! I must've suffered a... fleeting bout of dyslexia, ahaha. Ha. Bless my soul, what an embarrassment!"
Expression smoothing out once more, Skylar sank back on her heels, evidently satisfied. "
Fantastic. Now, is that all I gotta do? Am I in?"
"U-um, no, not just yet," Jake began, haltingly, attention torn between the pilot's threatening visage and the screen of his device. Upon spotting the brewing storm clouds in Skylar's expression, however, he hastened to explain himself. "It's just, well, I have to ask a few more questions for the interview! On camera this time."
The woman sighed harshly, arms folding indignantly over her armored chest. "Fine. Get to it, then."
“Right," agreed the attendant, hurriedly readjusting his glasses and, in the process, selecting the tiny 'record' button cleverly hidden inside the frames. Really, these things were turning out to be a
lifesaver. "What is your reason for entering Dante's Abyss this year, Miss Watari?”
Seeming to settle down a bit, Skylar nonchalantly cocked her hip against the booth, distractedly twirling a lock of purplish-red hair between her nimble fingers.
“Well, it's like this," she began in a matter-of-fact tone. "I owe this guy named Swindle about... oh,
five million shanix. And I've heard that winning this gig can bring in an awful lot of... bread? No, dough.
Definitely dough.”
Jake let out a dry laugh, which died soon after it began when Skylar pinned him with an unamused, painfully flat stare. He nervously cleared his throat and straightened up in his seat. "So, ah, what do you... have to offer for this competition?"
"Hmph," huffed Skylar, rolling her shoulders. She flicked her cig to the ground, stamping it out with a crunch of gravel. "If we're really gonna do this..."
Planting her hands on the counter once more, she leaned in close to the camera and, consequently, Jake himself. When she next spoke, it was with a firm, fierce tone of voice that cut across the rawness of the moment like the blade of a dagger.
“Let’s cut the chase, alright?" she growled. "I'm the best flyer this angst-enshrouded speck of
nothingness has ever seen. I am
sick of hanging around this trashy little Primus-forsaken
rustball of a planet, waiting for something,
anything worth my time to happen. I'm
aching to get out there and kick some serious aft. Just shoot me the proper coordinates, and I can
guarantee you'll be in for a show."
All the while, her mech loomed behind her like a giant, red-eyed sentinel, the menacing glare of its optics slicing through the dreary early morning gloom like a pair of blood diamonds. Almost as if it was mirroring her threat.
Jake shuddered.
"Well, that's all sorted then," the attendant muttered to himself, chuckling the chuckle of someone trying to hide their intense nervousness. He hastily flicked the switch on his camera-glasses to its off setting. "But some touch-ups might not hurt..."
The glasses beeped and whirred as they powered off. Jake raised his voice to a slightly higher level of politeness and threw in a few extra friendly customer service smiles for good measure. "Excellent. You're all done here! Just sign this form
here, strap yourself into that trusty old teleporter straight through
there, and you'll be transported off to the land of fame and fortune! Or, uh, whatever—"
Not even sparing a 'cheerio' in response, Watari breezed past him, hot-footing it to the teleportation room. Seeing as she'd been the first person to arrive at Jake's booth that morning, there fortunately wasn't a queue blocking the way. Not that it would’ve stopped her.
Jake feverishly scurried after the pilot, lagging slightly behind her speedy footsteps. "Ah, we'll be delighted to transport your machine for you—"
Skylar paused just before her feet touched the glittering disc of the teleporter and spun around, shooting him a sidelong glance.
"Don't worry about it," she told him, mouth slanting into a crooked, roguish grin. "I've got it handled."
And in a staticky flash of violently purple-colored light, she vanished.