Damn Helmholz, Vance thought bitterly, climbing up the mounting array to get to the cockpit of Wandknight Alpha. Damn Helmholz for getting his ass kicked along with the rest of us and getting himself laid up in medbay, and damn me for giving a shit. He punched the hatch button and crawled into the chest-cradle of the gear, the canopy sliding obligingly down.

It was supposed to be a routine raid, snatch some gears and get the hell out of there. But oh, no, HQ hadn't seen fit to tell them that they'd be up against that new Kislev model, the one that Vance had grappled with single-fucking handedly. Hell, he knew they were all cannon-fodder, but they could have at least TOLD them. Vance groped under the steering column, searching. Had to be here somewhere.

Maybe they hadn't even known it would be there. Vance shook his head. They'd sure seemed surprised when he gave his report with Renk and Broyer. Helm, as analyst, should have turned in a diagnostic on the gears that attacked them, but he was too busy bleeding all over medbay, and Stratski wasn't going to leave his side. So WHO did they yell at to go pull the combat file?

That's right. Good ol' Vance. Vance snorted. All he wanted to do was get back to his shoebox of a room, get under the blankets and ride out what he knew was coming. Any delay in that was just gonna make it worse. And he knew it was coming soon, because his irritation at Helm for getting hurt was rapidly turning to concern. First sign of the Drive wearing off-- he started caring. Vance stubbed a fingernail and swore bitterly. Stupid WK-786 steering models, he could never find the blasted disk insert--

His fingers fumbled over something smooth and cool, and he lifted it to the dim light leaking in through Helm's tinted cockpit shield. Helmholz's glasses winked up at him in his shaking hand, one lens cracked into an intricate cobweb, the ear piece bent awkwardly.

"Damn," Vance muttered. "That must have hurt, Helm." His fingers wondered over the fractured glass. Archaic things, glasses, but Helm said he liked the way they looked and they didn't take as much out of his pay as nanorepairs to his retinas would have. The blow could have easily killed him, Vance realized, and shuddered. Helm could have dropped dead back there, and Vance wouldn't have given a shit. Not until hours later. He might not even have noticed it happening.

Vance started. He'd been here too long, it was already beginning. Find the disk find the disk find the-- Vance shook his head, his fingers clumsy on the hatch release. Forget it, he'd come back. It was bleeding out of his system with every breath he took and if he didn't leave now, didn't escape, didn't crawl into the hard darkness of his bunk and pull the blankets over his head then the Drive would run out and...

Vance rubbed at his eyes, trying to dispel the spots. Maybe Helm had an extra syringe in here, enough to stop his shaking, get him to the office and back before-- He wept, groping the empty compartment on the console. Damn Helm, didn't he know to keep a spare?

Vance slumped back in the synthleather seat, eyes closing. Fuck. He was stuck here, shivering with the temperature drop as his body recovered from the drug, sobbing with the emotional flood of fear and adrenaline that had been blocked for the past four hours. Oh well, at least it was small and dark and nobody would find him, curled in a ball in the belly of Helmholz's gear.

"Fuck fuck fuck..." He hugged his knees to his chest for warmth, and waited.

Vance had never been designed for combat. Too emotional. It was, after all, encoded into his system, right along with the rare red hair and the slight, fragile build. His parents were third-class, second generation slaves, and money was hard to come by in the hives. As all lower level citizens were, before Vance was born he was checked for any unique abilities or talents that might help cement his niche in the society of worker drones, and also scanned for any abnormalities that would, of course, result in immediate termination of pregnancy. Vance's basic genetic code had been promising, and since the initial payment alone was more than most third citizens would make in a year of labor, his parents had agreed to have their unborn eighth child scheduled for genetic pre-programming. Few were chosen for Vance's position, the one that paid out the most to the parents.

Social level A. First class. Courtesan.

He was bought at age eleven and from that point on a percentage of his profit would go to his parents, another to his agency, and a last third for himself. His contract was good for fifteen years. Vance's mother had wept when they came for him; he was the second child she'd lost that way. Vance was sad but hadn't hated her for it. It was, after all, part of the system. How things worked. In the lower levels you did whatever you were best at; wherever the government told you your skills belonged.

His contract had been snatched up immediately, even in Etrenank he was a prize. Vance had learned quickly to cope with it. It was, after all, a lifestyle built into his bloodstream. The need came easy and the release was slow but good. And he was lucky. The Gebler officer who purchased him discovered an unusually high ether rating in his new pet, and discovered that he could make a tidy profit by turning his concubine into a gear pilot. Vance's contract was graciously accepted by Jugend, who put him through basic training. He remained in the care of his sponsor until he was put into the ranks, and not three weeks later was shipped to surface duty, and into the group with Stratski, Helmholz, Broyer, and Renk.

Renk and Broyer ignored him; it was quite obvious that Vance hadn't been bred to be a soldier, but as long as he pulled his weight in battle they could care less. Helmholz had been openly curious but Stratski had avoided him like the plague, never glancing in his direction without cool disdain in his long green eyes. Vance pretended not to care. All he had to do was live though the next ten years, then all his Gebler pay would be his own and his contract would be done and he could do as he liked within the social limits of the home country. Deep down he hated it, the slurs and the hints and the hands that grabbed at him in the hallway. His teammates left him alone, but he couldn't be with them all the time, and even if he could, Helm was the only one remotely nice to him.

But it really didn't matter, because one he got to the surface they gave him Drive for the first time.

And even Renk had to get out of his way. The others didn't respond the same way, perhaps because their DNA had never been muddled with. But Vance needed Drive the same way his body demanded frequent release, and while they all lost their fear and failed to hesitate in combat, Vance became brutal.

Months passed and Stratski's looks of disgust became grudging admiration, Helmholz regarded him with more than passing interest and Renk was perhaps a little afraid of the boy who laughed as his Clawknight tore through fragile human bodies.

Broyer simply grumbled that no whore should be given the Drive, and if they found him at their throats one day it was no less than they should expect.

But that was only with the drug running like light through his veins, with his great vibrating beast under his body and in his hands, when the basic programmed needs for approval and response turned combat into a different kind of intercourse. Afterwards, it was not so simple.

Vance always came down alone.

It started with the fear, irrational, terrible. Fear of what he was becoming, that he'd stopped being human, was never human in the first place. Then the weeping, and that was even worse, because he could remember the pain and the terror and the screams of both sides, and then the cold sweat. He could maybe fall asleep after that, sometimes. But then sometimes too there was the inexplicable need for release that sent him screaming mutely into his pillow until he'd wrung every drop from his body. Rarely, if he was lucky, he would just cry himself to sleep.

He woke up with a start from dreams of destruction, a painful cramp in his left leg from sleeping in a gear cockpit. "Damn." He ran his hands though his hair, and stretched. His fingers found the numb muscle in his thigh and tried to knead some life back into it.

The gear dock was dark outside the shelter of Wandknight Alpha, and Vance frowned at the numbers on his chronometer. He'd been asleep for far too long. And in Helm's gear, at that. Vance grinned uneasily. At least he'd blacked out right after the shakes had set in; he didn't know what Helm would think about Vance wanking in Wandknight's cockpit. The grin became a chuckle. Helm would be fine, his brain informed him, rational now that the fatalistic aftershocks had slowed. He was probably back in his bunk already, bandaged and sleeping.

Vance leaned back with a sigh. He wasn't eager to get back to his room; it was a small cramped metal hole at best and the driver's seat of Wandknight was more comfortable by comparison. The seat creaked softly, warm from holding his body while he slept. Vance shifted his weight, savoring the heat. Helm would warm up the synthleather the same way in combat, wouldn't he? Vance exhaled, imagining that. Helm's hands gripping the controls, small space filled with the sound of his breathing. Vance moaned under his breath, fingers no longer massaging the long-absent ache in his leg but pressed over the too-tight pants of his uniform. The whole cockpit smelled like Helm; Vance didn't know how he could have missed it before, even with a head full of Drive-fog. The seat was shaped like Helm's body, holding Vance tightly as he undid his belt with a muffled clink.

Helmholz had never really tried anything on Vance, but then he hadn't disguised his admiration, either. It almost made Vance wonder if Helm even gave a damn what Vance had been born for, or if he found him appealing on his own merit. Vance let his hips sink back into the yielding seat, breathing quickening as he wrapped his hands around his sex, heart thundering with the luxury of pleasuring himself by his own wishes and not because of narcotic side-effects. "Helm," he tried, breathing it softly and watching a small patch of the canopy fog up. There, he liked that, liked the way it sounded in the still air of the gear, inside Helmholz's second skin.

"Helm," He whispered, closing his eyes. God, it smelled so much like him in here, cool and spicy, almost as if Helmholz were right there... watching...

"Can you see me, Helm?" Vance smiled to himself, imagining the older soldier's approving gaze, his listening silence. "You like it? You like me?" And in his mind's eye he could see the faint smile, the nod. He imagined the way Helm would take off his glasses and pull out the tie in his hair, letting the twilight-colored waves wash over Vance's skin... "Nggh!" Vance tossed his head, gasping. It was close now, his thighs were shaking and he braced his boots on the floor, wishing desperately for something warm inside him, for the weight of Helm's body pressing him down into the soft cushioned seat. He lifted his hips for the lover that wasn't there, squeezing his eyes shut as warmth welled up between his legs like blood from a clean cut, spreading up his spine to soften the impact of release. "Helm..." And it was there suddenly, waves of sensation rippling over his skin as the ache melted into perfect hot release, and he slumped back into the seat, spent.

"Sweet Mother of Destruction," Vance muttered after a long moment, blinking. He'd just gotten himself off, on a whim, in one of his teammates' gears. Maybe he was still high after all. He scowled down at the mess, pulling his undershirt down to clean himself up a bit. "I sense this will not improve my reputation."

"Or mine, if anyone finds you in there."

Vance jumped, trying to identify the shadow that had fallen over the canopy. "Who's there?"

"Helm." He tapped the tinted transparisteel in greeting. "Are you decent? Are my glasses in there?"

"Just... just a second." Vance hustled himself back into his uniform, and picked up the spectacles on the console. He punched the canopy release and it slid back, leaving Vance squinting up at Helmholz. Even in nocturnal mode, the dock lights were brighter than the dark cockpit of a powered-down gear. "How're you feeling?"

"Blind, but better." Helm had one eye covered with gauze, probably to keep desert-grit out of his wounds as the nanomachines did their repairs. "Up early, medbay drugs have my sleep-cycle all out of whack, thought I'd check on Alpha." He smiled, knowingly. "I didn't know my gear was occupied."

"Sorry," Vance muttered, holding Helm's glasses out to him. "I came to get the combat file but the Drive started to wear off and--"

"It's okay, you don't have to explain." Helm frowned at the broken rectangular lens. "When you come down, you come down. Drive doesn't give a damn about location. You okay?"

Vance shrugged. "As much as I ever am."

Helm offered a hand to help haul him out and Vance stumbled on the mounting platform, not quite steady on his legs yet. "Hey, careful!"

"I'm okay." Vance tossed his hair out of his eyes. "Helm, how long were you--"

"You probably should get back to your bunk, in case somebody comes looking for you. Don't know what command would say about you sleeping in the dock." Helm ducked as he climbed into the pilot's seat, settling back and punching a few buttons. The gear hummed as it began its diagnostic cycle. "Although it is a good spot if you're after some privacy." Helmholz glanced up at Vance with a one-eyed, knowing look, and Vance felt his cheeks flush.

"Yeah, it is." Vance cleared his throat. "I uh, I guess I'll just head back to barracks, then."

"Sleep well." Helm appeared to be engrossed in his combat statistical readout.

Vance swung a leg over the access ladder, starting to head down.

"Hey, Vance." Helm's voice stopped him, Wandknight's pilot leaning out of the cockpit, ponytail dangling over his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"It happens to all of us, you know. Next time come see me, not my gear." Helm smirked, one eye narrowing. "I'm better in bed." He waved and Wandknight's canopy came down around him, blocking him from view. The hum of the diagnostic battery system ceased, Helm had turned the power off.

"Right." Vance lifted his head and smiled up at the silent gear, thinking of Helm's small heartbeat inside the giant metal body. "I will."