Recommended Music: Chapter 1, Armored Core 4.
A soothing chirp, a coming and going harp whispers through the speakers. Despite the gentle lull of the ambient music as the sitar wades in, despite the ample servings of creamy delicacies laid on the table one small face remains grimly locked in a frown. Arms loose above the knees, yet fists tightened as if to crush rocks or necks.
A puff of smoke as the cigar is rested, a cough as the voice raises beyond the music. "Come on. Eat something, there's nothing better than sweets to get going after piloting, I've been told," Leon Meyers says, nodding.
Panther remains darkly frowning, but picks up the small cup to sip slowly.
"Well, first, congratulations on your foray into the Arena. Not many start by climbing spots, much less getting points after a defeat."
"It wasn't a defeat, that wasn't a proper match…"
Leon sighs, taking a second to inhale and let out a mushroom cloud. "The system registered as an official match. Take the spoils, you'll need it."
Panther's brows knot down a bit more, biting onto a donut with much oomph. "Sir, do you know anything about that mech?"
Meyers holds the inquiring, unblinking gaze, before turning to rasp more smoke. "There's quite a few custom builds out there, Panther. From F-4 units adorned with a Zuikaku's head visor to complete chimeras. And then there's some… pulverizing machines out there, too," a mild frown dissipates like the toxins breathed out, Leon nods with a shrug and a crooked smile. "Don't worry, it's not usual that our rookies get paired up with such units."
"That pilot, Little Bun said she didn't understand 'why' I was a rookie, despite being who challenged me…"
Leon closes eyes, sighing hard. "Don't think too much about it. They must've seen the report from yesterday's mission and assumed you had more scars under your belt, is all."
Panther chooses to say nothing, finishing the coffee. "Anything else?"
"Well, you already did check on your machine. Did it work as you thought?"
"Better, actually. Will I get access to the garage online shops soon?"
"Soon, yes. You don't have enough cash for meaningful upgrades yet, unless you know what you're doing with the internals. On that regard, before you can receive missions, you have to sign this," he passes a document and a pen to the other end. "It's the formal oath we couldn't get to last night. It comes with the benefits and responsibilities of being a core citizen, even if you choose to remain living downtown."
Panther blinks at the pages, before tapping the arm terminal for A/M's assistance in reading OIL. Leon sighs and returns to his cigar while he waits.
When finally signing, Panther then asks. "Will I get my operator now?"
"Either that or tomorrow," Leon says, checking the time and wincing. "Well, this took long enough. You should be going home," he says, taking the document and offering a handshake.
Panther accepts it, tilting the head nonetheless. "But it's only past noon?"
Leon heartily chuckles. "Ha! You were out for one full hour, and spent quite some time in your matches. It's better to be inside before sunset downtown, you should know," he winks, patting Panther's shoulder. "We'll be in contact if anything happens."
With one final nod, he departs the small office room. Panther merely stares at the doorway, checking the time by the watch and merely blinking at the sway of the arrows.
It was still vivid, ghosting the skin. The sheer pressure, the flickers of those blazing wings. The dismissive, apathetic voice.
One more donut is chomped on before Panther stomps towards the elevator, finding some solace in the few positive reviews the matches received.
The way home is as uneventful as most times, despite the odd looks Panther gets from some citizens. Checking prices in the nearby shops makes an already upset stomach plummet further, the gap for wares larger than the appearance of the slums with the core city.
Choosing to take the train home and shop there, Panther idly checks the replays of the fights as well as the comments from them.
"…Most of them are for that weird woman. Seems to have a large following," Panther pouts, hitting both feet together.
No answers can be gained, the commenters are as blind to the origins of the Rapier as the rest but one curious bit is that, apparently, Little Bun remained as second place in E Tier during the last season, on purpose for the masses due to the skill gap, to not promote to the next tier at the end of the point tally.
Slow and dragged are the steps out of the train, Panther minimally nods at the many silver-haired automatons doing maintenance and cleaning the terminal. One Natural sits nearby in a mostly crimson red attire, chomping on a large hamburger, a real one, while watching the Arena on his arm terminal.
Panther has to cough for the man to scan the ticket and allow passage, yet looking back down from the steps he remains loafing about rather than help the automatons.
If not for the grumble of the stomach upon the scent of the meat and grilled cheese, Panther's feet were firmly rooted in place. With an eye on the dwindling light above, a moderate jog takes on broken tiles and skips over leftover bags in the sides.
And yet, the gloomy air of the slums or the hungry stab inside cannot blind the eyes from that shape, those flaring wings. The frown it spurs sends stalking steps packing away from the small one's lane.
Panther despises sunrise. Not because it's dark or anything, but because by then the pillow is very much preferred over any light.
It had been arduous, to recalibrate the biological clock to swerve upwards by five hundred sharp. ALLMIND wouldn't have it any other way, and the repeated beeps were simply unbearable.
This time, however, as the red sun timidly peeks over the horizon as orange sweeps into the sky whole, Panther rubs stuck eyes open when stumbling out of the bed to the tune of another beep. That of the door.
"Who the hell…" the slurred query doesn't end, drowned by a yawn.
Slowly going to the door and looking through the peephole, Panther can't see anything or anyone save for the incoming, indirect light.
Grumbling at the prank, Panther turns away only to again hear the beep of the chime. And yet, there is no one outside. One deep breath opens eyes clearly, Panther sighs and flex fingers when slowly opening the door.
And unlike almost always, the eyes have to veer down to meet the gaze.
"Greetings. Is this the residence of surface pilot Panther?" a slow, delicate voice asks, giving a deep bow and fluttering the yet pristine dark pencil skirt.
Panther blinks, merely nodding. "Yes, that's me…"
The cerulean eyes, silverish hair were clear marks of the origins, yet unlike most other automatons from Eberbach Corp this one was even thinner and smaller than Panther.
The automaton gulps audibly at the silent stare, eyes veer down before a formal salute almost smacking the forehead. "I have been assigned as your operator assistant from now on, sir. It's a pleasure."
Panther then flinches, returning the gesture. "Oh, yes. Uh, what is your name?"
"ESP-Support Automaton, C430F V3-"
"No, no, your name, not your designation."
The petite girl shivers, looking down. "I… This unit does not possess a name. Support Automatons are not residents, therefore should be referred to by their serial codes, as per stated in the law," she insists, bowing down.
Panther minutely frowns, but sighs then steps aside, allowing entrance.
The petite assistant looks around the shallow room curiously, from the tattered bed, to the stained walls, or the messy state of the square table. Much unlike her formal office attire or trimmed and tied up hair, everything here was the opposite of the training labs and hallways. The two tiny, ear-like appendages of her tiara flutter and flap while C430F observes her new home.
Panther groans when putting a kettle to boil, taking out a small pack of rations and sitting by the table while moving out the spare chair.
And yet the small girl remains standing, shaking her head and little fake ears. "Automaton units should remain deferential to their owners."
"I'm not your owner."
"Yes, you are," the petite girl opens the small case she had been carrying, offering a document and some sort of mechanism. "This is your title of ownership of this unit, while you remain a surfie as well as its cost should you desire to buy a lifetime license. The small mechanism here allows for… fine tuning of my performance to suit your needs, although certain configurations may not… apply easily," the girl shivers, gulping audibly again.
Yet Panther remains frowning while sucking on the synth cola, biting through stiff peanut butter imitation as hands tighten around the packaging. "What does that even mean?"
"Well, I am a fresh unit. I've no specialized training for supporting specific fighting styles. I was informed that," she turns, fluttering the small dress to reveal similar metal bits to those Panther has up to the nape, but protruding from within the flesh, "certain pilots favor different approaches and our sensory assistance can vary depending on that. From tight reaction timings of limbs for CQC to precise aiming aid for snipers, our abilities can be customized to fit our owner's needs. This also applies for any domestic needs you have, such as cooking, cleaning, supply stock or…"
"…Or?" Panther asks, raising a brow at the sudden shiver.
C430F betrays the stoic programming, nibbling at the edge of lips while bowing down, remaining position as the small ears wilt down. "Or c-comforting duties, either for you or a third party."
The synth juice slips away, from both the hand and now gaping lips.
C430F cannot raise, cannot bear to as neck and hands constrict. "This unit will, always, remain loyal to my human masters. You will need not beat nor medicate me," she says, unable to open eyes as the steel bits begin to lightly burn the back of the head, where the tiara locks tight. "U-Unless my performance dissapoints, of course."
Silence pervades the small room for enough time that the red sun rises fully, casting its radiant redness into the otherwise darkening gloom of the apartment.
Fingertips rake at the table, softly, over and over, to try and process the words and gestures yet Panther only can afford a blue screen in disbelief, glitching in refusal.
Before any answer could be formulated, the arm terminal shivers and beeps. The vision is intruded as the retinal projection activates, a xylophone cascading down the spine as the slow internet of the slums takes its sweet time.
The corporate monochrome icon swirls, from it the usual stoic voice billows. "Good morning, Panther. You have two priority mails."
Panther raises a brow, looking at the petite girl that quivers in place. Sighing then, the accept option is tapped. "I didn't know you could start automatically without prompt."
"When missions become available, I will immediately notify my users of it," ALLMIND simply answers. "If you'd rather check on your own time, you can disable this function in the settings. It is recommended to allow this option to not miss any missions, as some are only available for limited periods of time."
Panther groans, rubbing the temple while opening the inbox. Too early to start questioning ALLMIND's advise, the fleeting eyes of C430F disturbing the already hard to swallow synth rations, the mails provide at least a small distraction, Panther thinks.
They're neither small nor a distraction, at all.
Unlike the mails from before, there is a small speaker icon as soon as Panther opens the messages with ALLMIND reciting the contents.
Sender: Mitsurugi Corp
Topic: Liberate the Factory
Yesterday at midnight, a group of rebelling workers took over the remains of the weapons factory in downtown.
Citing the suppression of their fellow workers, that are still detained, they're demanding either the continued operations of the factory or the release of the captured rebels. Helel's City Guard attempted to vacate the premises peacefully but the presence of unknown chemical weapons has made this impossible. The standoff hasn't progressed thus far.
Not only to avoid damage to the area but also prevent any further civilian losses, we request surface pilots to assist the city guard. The Mitsurugi Group has already agreed with both the factory owners and those living nearby to redevelop the area once the bridge connecting the Core to downtown Helel is completed, both to provide more housing but better services and amenities.
Every day that this is delayed the cost of this project will raise as well as the risk of violence breaking out. The factory still has its last weapon shipment inside its premises so causing collateral is not advised, unless unavoidable. We fear the strikers can resist for long enough to cause the project to be canceled, owing to these unknown weapons as well.
Thus we request swift assistance to put an end to this standoff. Liberate the factory from the strikers, capturing them if at all possible.
Operation Area: Amamiya Factory
Start Time: 1200 hours.
Enemy Forces: 12 Modified MTs, at minimum.
Reward: $13000
Panther gulps audibly, standing to stare into the distance. Into the curtain of sunshine blooming above the slums, the distant structures far ahead. Fingers flex, burn a bit, the head too when remembering the cranes and bolts, the shallow halls and maintenance rooms.
But debts don't wait. And not everyone is allowed to grow wings.
"Would you be feeling alright?" C430F asks, taking one step before bolting back to a stiff standing position, hands at the seams.
Panther shakes the memories off, taking off the kettle off the fire and making some synth prepackaged noodles. The offer to the assistance is rejected, the petite girl petrifying further in quick, mechanical shakes of her head. Panther sighs, slowly eating while tapping the second mail open.
ALLMIND's icon swirls for a moment before the connection is stable again, then the stoic telling begins.
Sender: Eberbach Corporation
Topic: Transport Rescue
As some of you may have heard, Eberbach Corporation is bidding to refurbish the rail system of Helel Colony and its nearby settlements. To that end, our representatives were planning on giving a small showcase to the Administration.
However, the transport that carried the equipment and supplies for our crew has not arrived. The last received communication from its crew was over two days ago, and our tracking signal cannot locate it either. We've already requested aid to both Helel and Mikhail Headquarters but nothing has turned up until now.
We do not wish to start casting blames so we shall relieve the city sentries from this duty. We request support to any pilots that can scout the area northeast of Helel and west of Mikhail, by the coastline. Any intel will be rewarded, but of course a safe delivery of the cargo shall be handsomely compensated.
If the transport is found, its integrity is paramount. Defend it at all cost. All of our human staff is in dire need of those supplies.
Operation Area: North Coast
Start Time: 1130 hours.
Reward: $10000
"A missing vehicle? Can't A/M simply track its signal via satellite?" Panther wonders.
"No signal can be detected without a receptor," A/M immediately replies. "The satellites are also reserved for emergencies, not individual requests."
"That seems like a waste to me…" Panther shrugs, thinking that Eberbach Corp could easily simply open their systems to A/M to locate this truck with their own satellites, however few. "Then again, anything upload through ALLMIND can be accessed by anyone else… The colonies squabbling for pebbles, again," a heavy sigh later, the whole cup of noodles is swallowed like a whirlpool.
Looking at the clock, it's barely 600 hours. Enough to shower, get ready for the briefing, and sortie in time.
"A/M, for how long are missions available?"
"Until its requested roster is completed. It is recommended to accept any mission you're interested in quickly. It is odd a fresh rookie would receive two."
"Hmm… Their times are too close, so I can't accept both here," Panther rubs chin while sliding two small windows in the arm terminal, bringing both mails up and center in the sight.
On the corner of it, C430F stood as petrified as before, fleetingly glancing Panther's way. Rereading both descriptions slowly, Panther then stands and goes towards the formal dress then pretty much pushes a small pack of synth rations into the petite girl's hands.
She quivers in place, silverish hair uncurling when bobbing the head down. "This unit does not require additional nourishment to function properly in-"
"You'll need that after the mission, if the classes said the truth on how you assistants work," Panther insists, nodding down. "Just focus on normal navigation duties for today."
C430F bobs her head again, mechanically. "Yes, of course. Um… How should this unit address you?"
Panther hits a fits to the chin, pursing lips. "Well, my 'real' name never comes up in the jig so Panther should be fine… Why do you ask?"
"There are those who gather automaton units to perform missions and other requests for them. I wondered if that was your job."
"Oh, Handlers. I'm a surfie, so Panther is alright. And you…" eyes veer down to the tab attached to the small dress, the ID number carved in. "That's a bit uncomfortable to use… Do you not have a callsign, at least?"
C430F shakes her head, shrinking her shoulders and looking down.
Looking at the clock, Panther then sighs while putting the formal dress on. One eye on the mails, the other on the quivering if frozen assistant.
"Alright, let's be on our way…"
1st Choice:
1 – Accept the mission from Mitsurugi Corp
2 – Accept the mission from Eberbach Corp
2nd Choice:
A – Leave C430F as the name of the assistance
B – Suggest a callsign for her
A/N: Small transition chapter is small.
For those that may come only from AC, the whole lore of the automatons is foreshadowing in itself. While not expanded in detail in the main Muv-Luv trilogy, the lore regarding the ESPers is honestly saddening as they are for all intents and purposes a manufactured slave race. Of course, for and from who vary in the fic from canon, as that is the hint.
And with this, we begin the missions in earnest. Choose wisely.