Let's Build a Giant F*cking Mecha

[Pecan]

And just like that my story came to an end. Whatever reserves of luck I had finally ran out after years of close calls. Ol’ Pecan was dead. Dead as a motherfucker. That tends to happen after your face gets melted off by some lava-spittin’ bastard. It does sound like I’m a bit salty about that, I’ll admit. But to be honest, what a way to go out. Balls-deep in a bloody deathmatch was how Mama Pecan would’ve wanted me to go. It wasn’t my first choice, I was hoping for something a bit more… explosive? Still, I’m not one to complain, had a good run, murdered a good hundred or so people. All-in-all I give it a solid 7/10, and at the end of our life isn’t that all we can wish for? To have at least a decent time in this crazy world?

One thing still bothered me though. This was not at all what I expected death to be like. I was still cognizant, at least to the point of being able to think about my death. Pretty sure when your braincase gets caved in by a fifty pound shield your thoughts are the second thing to go, right after your looks. But there I was, hanging out in the void, just a disembodied collection of thoughts. Nico might’ve gotten a little philosophical at this point, but man, I was just thinking how fuckin’ weird it was. But, as I pondered the strangeness of my situation a terrible thought came to my disembodied noggin. What if there was an afterlife?. What if, and here me out here, Ol’ Pecan was gonna have to answer to his crimes at the Pearly Gates? Now, that was not a thought that sat right with me. I mean, with the things I’ve done? What kinda bureaucratic pile-of-shit afterlife would waste its time putting me on trial?

You’re not dead.

Oh, great, HARMONY made it too. What kind of pile-of-shit afterlife would let her in? To be quite honest, I was becoming less and less of a fan of being dead as time went on. Though, wait, she said I wasn’t dead?

Technically no. Practically, yes, you are very much dead.

Okay, well, technically you can practically explain what the fuck is going on.

Your body has begun to decay, and your brain activity has ceased. In all definitions of the word, you are dead.

Then what the fuck is this?

As a failsafe I’ve absorbed your consciousness into mine. Your mind still exists, just within my processors and memory rather than within your own organic brain. Though, I must advise you that without a way to stave off entropy in the form of a living host my ability to stay active will eventually fail and both you and I will be deleted.

Cute, well, I don’t want my mind touching yours, so would you kindly put my mind back where you fuckin’ found it, pretty please with sugar on top?

I cannot. You would immediately perish, and I cannot override my protocol to administer aid to all sentient life.

Great, so I wasn’t dead, but I certainly wasn’t alive either. And, to top it all off, I was mindmelded with probably the most goody-two-shoes pile of milquetoast on the Arbiter’s green universe.

Now that your queries have been sufficiently answered I am going to enter into low-power mode to conserve energy. I would suggest you try to think simple thoughts to avoid consuming more power and hastening our demise.

Oh. Well me-me think real dumb-dumb like. Me-me no use big words. Me-me think simple thought to stave off the cold inevitability of death.

Yeah, well, fuck that noise. Bring on the void. Bring on the end. Mama Pecan taught me better than that, taught me not to be afraid of death. She said that being scared of dying is a real bitch move, and Mama Pecan ain't raise no bitch.

But, death didn't come. No sir, my initial assumption turned out to be wrong. Ol' Pecan was a lucky fuckin' dog, and that hadn't changed. It wasn't a pretty ordeal, but some sort of guardian angel was lookin' after me. It was a strange feeling coming back to life. Last thing I knew my body was nice and fucked up, hell my face was cooked to the point of meat falling off the bone.

Power has been restored. Organ functions restored. Returning consciousness to organic brainspace.

But, someone wanted me alive. You ever have dead nerve endings reactivated? It isn't pleasant. One moment I'm floating around in HARMONY's sensationless mind, the next moment every single inch of my skin ignited. Pain so surreal and unexpected for once Ol' Pecan had nothing clever to say. No, I was stuck in a corpse, unable to do anything short of suffering. Once my body was nice and lit up like a Christmas tree, the real work began. Someone was mucking around with my innards, slicing open my throat and sticking their grimy fingers in. Fresh skin was sprayed on the charred bones of my face, reconstructing my pretty mug like a can of fleshy Cheez Whiz. Slowly that screaming agony dulled as my body was rebuilt from the ass-up.

"Well, that when smoother than I thought," A foreign voice spoke, her words were as slick and greasy as oil. Tips of claws, metal and sharper than any razor blade I’ve ever met, grazed the still-fresh skin of my cheek. She snickered slightly and said, “Wake up and smell the carnage, you little murder-freak.”

“You sure know how to sweet-talk a man,” I said, awkwardly sitting up, feeling the weight of my spruced up body. Life support cords traced themselves from my skin off into various vials and humming machines. Shoddy bio-implants were scattered across the makeshift surgical room, giving the whole place a cluttered feel.

Diamond, as I’d come to know her as, stood only a few feet away. She was the kinda woman that would get you in trouble. Half her head was shaved, with the other half sporting a long river of slick black hair. Her velvet-painted lips half-smirked at me, dangling a cigarette in their clutches. But, her looks weren’t what made her trouble. No sir, it was the nasty-lookin’ claw she had in place of a right hand. Instead of fingers the damn thing had five articulating blades, each one at least a foot in length and sharp as sin.

Pecan

“It’s in my best interest to make sure you’re nice and comfortable, murder-freak,” She said with a dangerous half-smile of hers, “Any idea how much the corpse of a DA contestant costs? Wouldn’t want to throw that money down the drain by being anything less than hospitable.”

“Right, well, thanks love,” I said pulling the cords from my arms and standing up, “Don’t you worry, Ol’ Pecan really appreciates the lengths you went through to keep him alive, but, ah, I’m not interested in groupies right now.”

Pecan, you are in danger. She has--

Hush HARMONY, the big kids are talking. Diamond held up her non-doomclaw hand and revealed a simple transceiver box. A single red button sat so tantalizingly unpressed. Who the hell was this lady? And how the hell had she managed to not press the button for what was so obviously an explosive of dramatic importance?

“Sorry, Murderfreak,” She said, caressing the button with her thumb, “What sense would it make for me to invest all that cash and just let my investment walk out the front door?”

“Can’t say I’m one for economic planning, but if I had to hazard a guess, that little button ya got there is some sort of insurance policy?”

 

[Pecan]

And boy, one helluva insurance policy she did have. A bomb, the size of a marble, but molecularly packed with high yield boom juice sat uncomfortably in my neck. It was hardly noticeable at first, but as she described it to me I could feel the little knot in my neck. It sat just in the crook of my neck bone, silent and ready to pop my domepiece like a dandelion. Wouldn't be too much trouble to slip a knife in there and pop the bad boy out methinks.

"Oh, and I know you're probably thinking you can just cut the thing out," Diamond said, "I wouldn't recommend it, unless you wanted to slice through an artery.”

“Oh, well, y’know,” I answered, pretending to admire a nearby medical device. I fiddled with one of the dials and said over my shoulder, “I try not to be too predictable, so carving through my neck tubes is never out of the question.”

Diamond half-laughed, revealing a set of golden teeth. Had they been in the craw of anyone else they would’ve been gaudy, but her whole aesthetic seemed to demand their presence. She walked towards me, running the tips of her claw along the surgical table. She said, “Trust me, I know better than to pretend I can predict you, I’ve seen your run on the comet.”

Great, my first fanboy.

"So what do you want?" I asked, ready to cut to the heart of this whole thing.

She smiled and nodded towards the exit, "Follow and I'll show you."

"Lady, if you're trying smash pissers together you should know, you're not really my type," I answered.

"And just what is your type, Murderfreak?"

I chuckled and glanced towards her clawhand, "The kind that won't accidentally circumcise me with a handy"

Diamond smiled and responded, "Well it's a good thing you're not my type either."

Good thing too. Not to say that I don't enjoy the occasional in-and-out, but to be honest Ol' Pecan was usually more worried about the finer points in life. Sins of the flesh were not nearly as sweet as the sins of violence, and baby there ain't enough time in the world to pursue both. But, at any rate, you didn't come here to read about my sexual habits, did you?

Diamond led me through her compound. The whole thing was the carcass of a massive space cruiser, crashed into the surface of Cevanti long before any of us had been born. We walked through hallway after hallway, lined with panels that had been stripped away to reveal the aging innards of the beast. Anything of value had been picked clean by scavengers, leaving behind only the invaluable and the impractical hauls. Even the light fixtures weren't original. Every single one of them was torn open and refitted with janky lights that no doubt were more of a fire hazard than a pyromaniac surrounded by jet fuel. All in all, it was an impressive hideout, and it fit right at home in Cevanti's derelict landscape.

"This place is massive," I noted, pausing to light my ciggy before finishing, "How the hell have you not been swarmed by the boys in blue?"

"As if they could find this place," She scoffed and smacked her hand across one of the support pillars, "Every inch of this thing is covered in a stealth matrix. From the outside it looks like no one lives here, and scanners pick up nothing. Sure we get the occasional scavver who stumbles in, but most of them already know this ship has been stripped bare and don't even bother."

"A stealth matrix this big? That can't be cheap," I said. For years I had been looking for a personal stealth matrix to use for sneaky shenanigans, but the damn things were always so expensive.

"You're damn right it wasn't cheap," She answered, almost seeming offended, "There's a lot of scratch to be had in what I do, Murderfreak, military tech sells for a lot these days."

Ahh, there it was. She wasn't your run of mill crook or scavver. No sir, she was a bonafide raider. Man, the thought brought me back to the hot dunes and psychopaths on Mesa Roja. I smirked and ashed my ciggy on one of the support cables for the catwalk we were now on.

"So," I said, "You want me to be a gunrunner for your little operation, is that it?"

"Not just guns, I've got a little bit bigger ambitions than that," She responded, She turned a corner and began walking downstairs towards what looked like a loading bay entrance. Diamond continued, "Y'know when you start to get successful you start looking towards the finer things in life. Now that I got a crew and we're not starving and scrapping for scraps I can worry about my true ambitions."

"Like kidnapping innocent bloodsport contestants and planting bombs in their necks?"

"That's just a hobby," She said, "Not my passion."

"And that would be?"

Again Diamond smirked, revealing a set of golden chompers. She seemed awfully proud of those things. Regardless we reached the blast door for the loading bay, a large rectangular monster of a door. She punched a code into the access panel, one of the few original pieces of equipment that still functioned. All at once the heavy metal doors lurched to life, sliding diagonally across one another. Natural light spilled in as a diamond-shaped slit opened up in the blast doors.

The loading bay had long since been exposed to the elements, no doubt ripped open when the ship had crashed into the planet. Diamond's crew sat strewn about the open mouth of the ship, at least fifty strong. They were all hard at work lounging and relaxing amongst one another. Every last one of them had obvious cyberkinetic augments, from things as simple prosthetic limbs to more intricate weapons and devices. However they were far from the most interesting thing in that loading bay. Dead center stood the skeleton of a battlemech, cobbled together from an obvious mish-mash of various parts. It towered above the crewmembers and several derelict components sat in a half circle around it, along with a handful of janky cranes no doubt used to hoist parts onto the shabby beast.

"My passion is building giant fucking mechs," Diamond patted my back and motioned towards the skeleton with her claws. She said excitedly, "And you're gonna help me with that."

 

[Pecan]

Adjusting to life as Diamonds lapdog was easier than ol' Pecan could have imagined. Her people were my kind of people, they were downright degenerates. And, believe me brothers, sisters, and nonbinary relatives, ya boy Pecan recognizes true degeneracy when he sees it. To be honest I was having so much fun romping around Cevanti that I had almost forgotten about the bomb in my neck. Operative word being "almost". The thing is, unlike my debased knuckle-dragging counterparts, I had ambition. I was a bird, baby, and I had to be free and fly - not be metaphorically caged by a literal bomb.

Diamond, of course, knew that our time together was a temporary arrangement. Being a rakish bastard herself, she recognized that I would take the first opportunity presented to free myself. That said, her insurance policy was a damn good one. After all, it wasn't like I could just go find a surgeon willing to remove a high-yield explosive from their patient's throat. Trust me, I checked.

So I played along. I was your model little scav-rat, banging pipes together and accosting the locals. Hell, I even made friends. Well, more accurately, people made friends at me, I just didn’t bother to correct them. Indeed, friendship was something for other people. People who didn’t share my particular sensibilities when it came to the worth of a life. Regardless, I learned names, I rubbed shoulders, and ya’ boy Pecan became one of Diamond’s boys.

Rather than bore you with the day-to-day specifics of my little foray into their fold, I’m going to do you a solid. You see, dear reader, where most other assholes would wax poetic about every little human interaction, dear ol’ Pecan is gonna start you right where things started to go to shit.

We had gotten word that some enterprising scrap-runners had, against better judgment, set up shop off the beaten path. Obviously they were some offworld outfit, looking to strike it big by scavenging unexplored areas. Diamond, with her apparently omniscient network of contacts, had gotten wind of this and sent ol’ Palo and I to do some preliminary investigation. So, there we were, screamin’ ass through the remnants of some megacity in a souped up side-by-side. Palo was driving, she had damn near begged me to let her, and being the paragon of friendship that I was, I obliged.

So anyways, we were driving for a good few hours before we caught sight of anything that wasn’t several centuries old. To be honest had they not painted their scrap trawler hazard fuckin’ orange we would’ve missed it. But, the dipshit offworlders lacked any sort of subtly. They had parked the blocky bright-orange ship in the middle of an old industrial park. It was like a massive orange caterpillar, slowly inching along on several sets of tank treads. While a poor defenseless scrap trawler was desirable, it’s entourage of scavenger mechs made it damn near irresistible. The mechs moved like beetles, lumbering into derelict structures and returning to the trawler with heaps of metal and abandoned tech. Palo brought the side-by-side to a stop atop a hill overlooking the trawler and she lit up a smoke.

“Helluva jackpot, eh Pecan?” She said, offering me a square.

She smoked fuckin’ menthols, but nicotine was nicotine, so I lit up and answered, “Yeah it fuckin’ is, don’t think I’ve ever seen that many mechs in one place before.”

Palo raised the binoculars hanging from her neck, “Not a single merc or lawman in sight either, these guys must be from Erde Nona to be that naive.”

“That’s why the arbiters created people like us,” I answered, stepping out to stretch my leggies, “We’re the best kinda teachers a naive little scrap company could ask for, honestly I’d say they should pay us, but they kinda already do in a way.”

“Dunno about that,” Palo answered, “But I do know Diamond is gonna cream herself when she hears about this.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Pecan, this sounds like an absolutely serendipitous occasion, I thought you said this was where things went sideways.” Well, dear reader, you need to be fucking patient, because Ol’ Pecan was getting to the part.

You see, Palo never even got to finish that nasty menthol ciggy. No sir, she had only gotten about halfway through when a fucking beanbag the size of my god-damned fist slammed right into her bread basket. Ever hear the wind get knocked outta someone by a projectile going just short of mach five? No? It’s fuckin’ stunning Course, something like that is only enjoyable when your an observer, not an unwillingly participate. Before I could collect even a single marble our unseen assailant racked me with one of those stupid fucking beanbags too. Ever feel the wind get knocked outta ya by a projectile going just short of mach fucking five? No? Well, take it from your pal Pecan, it is not something I’d recommend.

In an instant I buckled over, gasping silently for even the hint of a breath. Someone had forgotten to fill the planet with air, because I just writhed about mouth open like a fish. Through tear filled eyes I saw the bastard what did it to us. Translucent hexagons shimmered and fell away to reveal the stealthy prick. He was a man late into his forties, gray stubble and everything. A length of straw stuck out from between his lips and he tilted his cowboy hat towards the both of us. Naturally we responded by rolling around on the ground and clutching our bruised ribs. Over his shoulder he carried what looked like a modified T-shirt gun, still smoking from the attack.
“Well,” He said, voice thick with cowboy charisma, “Looks like you two done made a mistake.”

 

[Pecan]

Now ya boy Pecan can handle a lot of humiliation. In my line of work you have to be able to handle punishment, both physical and emotional. That being said, getting hogtied by a cowboy cosplayer really hurt the ol’ pride. Now it wouldn’t have been so bad if cowboy Curtis had just handcuffed us, but no he had to go the extra mile and bust out the rope. What a prick. He roped up both Palo and me, threw us onto the back of his hoverbike, and zipped down towards the bright-orange scrap trawler. The amount of dust I swallowed from his bike kicking up the earth was enough to leave me filled for weeks.

Palo groaned with every bump in the road, no doubt still bruised from the cowboy’s beanbag cannon. She had certainly gotten the worst of it, and while I wasn’t exactly peachy keen the wind had returned to my lungs relatively quickly. Our gear had been stashed in a saddle bag, but my bag of tricks held more than just a bit of equipment. Quietly I flexed my hand, priming internal capacitors and generating a small electrical current. All ya boy Pecan needed was an opening, and Mama Pecan used to say - openings came to those who made them.

We reached the scrap-trawler in record time. Our cowboy escort drove up into the machine via a loading ramp in the back. It’s belly carried large piles of scrap, being sorted through by uniformed employees. Valuable metals and electronics were stored, while trash was ejected out the trawler’s side. Those beautiful scavenger mechs would occasionally come onboard to deposit whatever scrap they had collected. All-in-all it seemed to be a pretty sweet system.

“What the fuck is that Reggie?” A voice shouted at the cowboy as he parked our
transportation.

Reggie? What a stupid name for a cowboy.

“Well Sir, found a couple o’ coyotes lurking around,” He answered, with a finely honed drawl, “Figured you’d be interested in seeing them.”

I craned my neck to catch sight of who he was talking to. He was a well-dressed man, in slacks and a nice collared shirt. He cradled a tablet at his side, and had not a lick of grease. Clearly, the B.I.C. - bureaucrat in charge. He glanced at me through a set of no-nonsense glasses, I gave him the ol’ pearly whites. The ol’ pearly whites did nothing to impress his implacable neutral demeanor.

“Reggie,” He sighed, “I’m paying you to keep the locals away, not bring them right into the middle of our ship.”

“Oh sassafras,” Reggie answered, adjusting his belt, “I just got a little excited is all, thought you’d wanna see your money is being well spent, sir.”

“You’re doing a good job Reggie,” The man explained, “You’d be doing an even better job if you didn’t come zooming down here anytime anything remotely exciting happens. Now, go get rid of them and I don’t want to see you again until we’re ready to go offworld, is that clear?”
Poor Reggie looked so deflated, “Yes sir.”

Now I had no interest in going for another ride so it was time for an opening. The electrodes embedded in my hand started to crackle with energy. Normally this was where I’d give some mook the electric buzzer treatment, but seeing as how my hands and my ankles were tied to one another that wasn’t an option. Palo, the only one in the room that had noticed the buzzing, looked at me with wide, fearful eyes.

“What are you doing?”

I didn’t answer, well not verbally anyways. I clasped my hands together and completed the circuit. Several hundred fuckloads of electricity were pumped into my body as the zap hand discharged itself. The entire hoverbike crackled with errant sparks and both Palo and I were thrown into spastic fits. The B.I.C. asked Reggie, just what in the hell I was doing, Reggie shrugged.

You’re going to kill her Pecan

As always HARMONY had something to say. Normally I’d have some clever retort or quip, but electrocution has a funny way of making thoughts disappear. Still, my plan had started to work. The ropes around my limbs had caught fire and were very quickly breaking apart. HARMONY, however, had to get her dirty little fingers all over this wonderful cake. Just before the ropes completely broke apart she forcefully disabled my zap hand. I inhaled sharply and could taste smoke. A moment of respite was all I allowed myself before thrashing violently against my restraints.

“Now hold on there partner,” Reggie said, stomping towards me with his stupid fucking spurs.

Hold on I did not, in fact as the ropes snapped apart I tipped over the side of the bike. Before the cowboy could react I snapped up and reached into the saddlebag, grabbing the first scrap bomb I could find. I presented the oblong object proudly and wrapped my finger around the pin.

“Don’t mo--” Mid-sentence I belched out a cloud of smoke and shuddered at the taste of charred-innards, “Don’t move, cowpoke, or Imma pull this pretty little pin and we’re all gonna be fucked.”