Time: 1834 shiptime
The officers' mess is a pristine and clean dining area; the entrees were served by noble chefs from the tonys homeworld 'New Avalon'. The space- a cozy off white and gray space, the lights overhead were warm they made Tony feel like he was back at home- though his estates walls were a navy blue that was much more relaxing to him compared to this off white.
Tony sat alone at a table in the center of the dining area. Before him on the clean and decorated table was a plate of food- the smell that emanated from the plate was bliss incarnate. The sizzle of the roasted chicken pulled apart into a fine steamy white spread, decorated nicely with a medley of veggies with a side of a beautiful gold crusted meat pie. The sight of this cuisine made Tony's mouth water, he had to fight the fitful saliva was almost too much to contain.
It had been two months; two long agonizing months. During his two months living down in the lower decks with the contracts Tony had to force himself to eat that bland, tasteless, horribly textured nutrient gruel. Tony wished he didn't know the truth of how the nutrient gruel was made, but he knew and it made him sick to the core.
"When this deployment is over I am going to have my doctors give me a once over. I will not be subject to this shit for longer than I absolutely have to." Tony thought, though even he knew he was being petulant. Tony had already visited the ship board doctors and surgeons in the upper decks. They concluded that he was not contaminated with any mutations or any other side effects of the nutrient gruel.
The first bite of his meal sent him to a world of bliss. The first taste of real food, food all the way from New Avalon. The meal reminded him of how the servants in his fathers estate would bend to his every whim. Though only after he'd proven his ability to carry the Guiterrez family name. The servants would serve him whatever foods he wanted, the chefs even introduced him to delicacies he didn't even know existed. He was grateful to them, especially the bath maidens, they were a special gift from father after he'd turned eighteen and passed the final exam.
The moment passed as fast as it came, to Tony's great dismay the food was growing cold. For some reason something in the air had shifted. The scent attacked his senses and ruined his meal; engine oil, gunpowder, blood, and - of course- Ferne's perfume.
Tony looked up from his meal to see Sargeant Ferne Irvraine approaching his table. Silently he willed her to move along. "Keep moving, I am trying to eat and you are ruining that." Tony heard his thoughts as his mouth spoke for him. Tony felt his face grow hot with anger at himself, a wave of heat passed through his body and he seemed not to be able to control even his own mouth. After composing himself he made a note to punish himself for the lapse.
A flicker of pain crossed Ferne's face as she heard Tony's words, though it did not deter her from her usual bravado. She'd gotten used to Tony's abrasive attitude, surely there was something more than arrogance. She walked directly to his table and tossed a stack of blood stained C-Bills in front of Tony. The stack was tied together with her hair tie. Each C-Bill was either a hundred or a fifty C-Bill. Easily totalling over eight thousand c-bills.
Tony observed Ferne carefully as she leaned in. Her Tank top was torn and blood stained, her jacket was disheveled but not ruined- good if it was ruined the quartermaster would have her hide. Was he supposed to be impressed? It was quite literally blood money she gained from brawling with the contracts. Tony makes that amount every two days, thanks to his various investments.
He pushed the thoughts aside. He studied Ferne for a moment, her skin still glistened with sweat, blood. Ferne's pale complexion marred with dark bruises, one eye was swollen shut; most likely a result of an elbow to the side of the head, she was peppered by cuts across her skin. Tony almost wanted to reprimand her- though he found himself at a loss for a moment, still she needed to understand the sloppy job she'd done. She is a mechwarrior and she shouldn't be seen in such a manner.
"Go see medical. I'm trying to enjoy my meal," Tony said simply. He was unimpressed and now aggravated. "You've ruined your shirt, and your skin—damaged by simple contracts. Embarrassing, Sergeant, all that effort for a couple of C-Bills we make on an hourly basis thanks to our commission." Tony's words were devoid of emotion, with not even a hint of authority in his voice. But in the silence between them, there was room for an ocean of disappointment. "Take your money, go see medical, and then report to the gym." There was something in his tone—something Ferne could recognize anywhere. Malice.
Ferne's bravado faltered. She'd fought her way through nearly fifteen other men—a brutal free-for-all—and walked away with nothing but a few scratches. This was his response? He should be proud of her, he should be congratulating her. Why didn't he even bother to acknowledge her accomplishment?
"Is that it? Not even a 'good job'? Not a 'congrats' for winnin'? Nothin' at all, huh?" She held his gaze, defiant. "Jus' so ye know, I earned these credits. I grappled with almost twenty men an' came out with barely a bruise, an' this is how ye react? Go fuck yerself, Tony. I'll see ye in the trainin' room, if that's what ye want." She forced the words out with more confidence that she herself felt. He's wrong she told herself. I doubt he could've made it out any better she concluded as she exited the mess hall.
Tony returned to his meal. During the indulgence of his meal he couldn't stop thinking of Sergeant Fernes words. Was that too harsh? No, this is what they signed up for; only the best of the best can graduate from the academy to become mechwarriors. Sergeant Ferne was sloppy; she needed more hand-to-hand training, Tony thought while chewing on some roasted chicken. though he would not be the one to do it Tony conceded.. He still needed to link with his Battlemech.
The reminder left a sour taste in his mouth and suddenly Tony's meal was ruined. The assignment he received, to him, was essentially babysitting duty. Tony had been trying to swallow his pride and link with the missile boat he was assigned. His assigned Battlemech wasn't what angered him. The captain's need for prejudice over competence is what angered him most. Making himself: Lieutenant Tony Guiterrez; babysit and teach a greenhorn Lieutenant the ropes would mean his lance would have to be disbanded and allotted to the other lances. Those lieutenants already had their hands full with their lances.
Tony stood bringing his plate with him. Tony's mind was reeling with ways to alleviate this issue, but no matter which way he looked he couldn't find a solution. Tony knew that the reality of this situation was simply acceptance. All he could do was follow orders and gain his position back, there was one other solution to this problem. Dropping off the plate at the drop off he left the canteen and continued down the corridor. The display to his left presented a stunning view. A goliath of a planet, shameless and angry in its red hue.
Tony stopped for a moment to admire the red giant. He felt the ship move in tandem with the planet's rotation. we must have stopped to refuel the tanks Tony's thoughts reason. Distracting him from a darker instinct that lurked underneath his controlled demeanor. He continued his trek down the corridor, Tony's had begun to cramp. calm down tony, it's just another battlemech, just another lance, soon you will have your status back. One way or the other He acknowledged the cramping muscles in his hand as he relaxed his hand from being balled up.
Tony had to pass his room to be able to gain access to one of the nearest elevators. He was able to access it now. Most likely thanks to finally receiving an assignment. Standing outside his door was a broad framed tall young man and a smaller woman. Tony stopped more than two arms distance away from them, they were not oblivious to his presence. Quite the opposite they both breathed a sigh of relief. William Brixton smiled, his bright toothy grin mocking Tony's calm nonchalant demeanor. Tony shifted his focus to mulbon, one of the shortest in his former lance. Veronica Mulbon, stood at attention only five foot eight inches, though she was also the heaviest in the lance weighing at a hefty 225 lbs. She was a mean little muscular woman, with a heart of gold and a fist of iron. Her complexion reminded Tony of his, only much paler than Tony's naturally light brown tan. She had brown hair that was braided between her shoulder blades.
Tony was not a ladies man in the slightest, this little woman made him slightly anxious. He suspected that she most likely held back during the exam simply to avoid a leadership role. Tony knew with muscular thighs like hers, she could most likely outrun all of the mechwarriors stationed on this vessel. Tony felt his cheeks flush and his chest tighten as Veronica snapped her fingers pulling Tony's eyes from her thighs.
"You are standing in front of my room. Why?" Tony's question was posed less as a question and more as a demand for answers.
Brixton stepped away from Tony's door. There was tension tightened his shoulders, and a rare sinking feeling in his stomach. Brixton was disappointed.
"Hey Tony, how have you been? We've been looking everywhere for you man." Brixton's shoulders relaxed as his words reached Tony's ear.
"That still doesn't answer my question william. Why are you in front of my door, second lieutenant." Tony's words were cold and demanding as his steel gaze cut straight through brixtons laid-back bravado.
Brixton was caught off balance by Tony's lack of warmth. They had been teammates and Brixton had been his second in command for the last year and a half before their deployment the Taurian Concordat.
"Well Lieutenant, Veronica and I here pick your brain sir." Brixton's posture had been corrected to attention by sheer instinct alone. "Sir, were you aware that you're no longer our commanding officer? Are you tired of us sir, I was pretty sure I was doin' good why you wanna get rid of me… Sir"
a subtle shift darkened Tony's demeanor. Where just a moment ago he stood tall, proud and poised with prestige. Tony's neck tensed, his shoulders which were relaxed now tensed with the reminder of the assignment and what it meant for his lance. It felt like he didn't speak for a long, drawn-out moment. Forcing his shoulders to relax and swallowed before speaking again.
"You are a massive waste of unit space, William, I need someone who can actually follow orders." tonys reply came dryly, his words laced with sarcasm. "Yes William, I am well aware that I am no longer your commanding officer. I didn't ask for this, but it doesn't change what needs to be done." Tony continued matter-of-factly.
"What about us boss" Veronica had been silent, listening intently, though it seems she heard something she didn't like. "I mean it's not like we can operate without a CO, how are we expected to be a lance without a lieutenant." She spoke with the confidence and the vigor of a team lead.
Her words pressed into Tony like a needle piercing leather. It bothered and intrigued him; he didn't often feeled pressured. But here, in the hall in front of his room he was being cornered about a situation he had no control over. This initially started as Tony wanting answers, and now he's the one being pressed for answers. This is ridiculous Tony thought.
"Gear down Veronica, our lance is being benched for the time being. You, william, ferne, jill, and dean are all being put on reserves. Don't ask me for how long– I don't have the answer to that question. Now follow whatever orders you're given and get out of my sight. I have other matters to attend to." tonys words had returned to their icy, edged with finality. Why should he care about these very insignificant concerns?
"C'mon tony that ain't fair, do you at least know why we're gettin' benched?" Brixton's voice was wounded. Why was Tony dismissing them like this? Didn't his team matter to him? Brixton wished he knew how to help. Maybe there was something Tony wasn't telling them.
Tony simply ended the conversation and pushed past the pair of mechwarriors. He continued his stride towards the elevator. Down the hall past the workshop, beyond the showers, the end of the hall underneath the command deck the elevator was there, the elevator doors closed. Pressing the button selected the mechbay it was down in the bowels near the engineering deck.
It took a long moment, he spent that time reflecting.
what is the captains goal here, strip me of my lance, give me a rookie I need to babysit and a lance I'm vastly unfamiliar with; lastly you stick me in fucking missile boat? Ridiculous, I'm trained as a brawler, an artillery role does not suit me. Her incompetence ceases to amaze me. Tony thought.
Tension gripped Tony's hands before he even realized– his hands had balled into tight fists.
The doors opened finally to the hustle and the bustle of the lower decks of the frigate. Hundreds if not thousands of personnel either worked or were housed down here, from simple contractors to enlisted marines and infantry. The air down here was choked by fumes of vehicles traveling to and from. The noise was deafening as the constant buzz of machinery, the whine of welders and screeching of grinders constantly pierced the air.
Tony grimaced at the sights, sounds and smells. He hated it down, the smoke choked air, insulted his lungs. The piercing noise resulted in a constant pounding in his head, and the whine of machinery rattled his bones violently. Although he had gotten used to it he hated the environment nevertheless. As a matter of fact the simple fact that he'd lived down here for an extended period of time resulted in him hating it even more so.
The walk to the mechbay would be a long one. The mechbay had to be powered by its own generators separated from the rest of the ships power systems. The result was that the mechbay was located a mile past the engineering deck which was already two football fields in length. With a heavy sigh Tony rode a platform down to the ground level.
The air down here was far thicker than he was used to. The handkerchief he wore in his uniform pocket was the only way he could cope with the pollution. Tony used it to cover his mouth and nose as he used it to breathe normally amongst the smog. Aerospace fighters were being maintained, infantry in powered armor were moving around crates of munitions and parts.
Tony used one of those powered armors for a very short time. He liked the power they gave him, though he despised how they looked. They were large upper-body skeletons with powered arms that assisted with heavy loads. Servo-assisted lower spines and legs granted the ability to run faster for longer periods and also allowed them to move freely, uncontested by the limitations of the human body.
The problem with their construction, in Tony's opinion, was simple: they were far too bulky for his liking. They also couldn't be worn universally, as they required extensive training to use the exo-skeletons to their full potential. They were meant to enhance the wearer's speed, allowing them to move at twice the speed of a normal human. However, the suits themselves were battery-powered and drained very quickly.
With a scoff, Tony continued forward, the air down here assaulting his nostrils despite how well his handkerchief covered his mouth. What he needed was a respirator, something that would filter out the air. Though he had become used to the heavy air, he had spent the first few days wearing a respirator until the filters became useless. Each step felt heavy, as though he were dragging himself through an ocean of smog. After a while, the noise became a bellowing background hum, causing Tony's head to pound violently.
Finally, after what felt like hours of walking through the smog, he reached his destination and beheld the spectacle of his new assignment. The machine stood eleven and a half meters tall, its tear-drop-shaped body and cockpit giving it a form Tony deeply disliked. He preferred the shape of the gladiator—it was imposing and stood upright. He liked that about the gladiator; it stood in power and pride. This thing he was looking at, though taller, felt much less imposing. Its tear-drop shaped and elongated cockpit made it seem as though it was built for speed.
Built for running away, Tony thought, as he coughed out a ball of pollution. He caught it in his handkerchief and angrily wiped it away.
Tony walked onto one of the platforms and closed the gate behind him. The platform rattled as it rose from the ground to the catwalk above, clearing all the low-hanging pollution. The higher he rose, the cleaner the air became. Upon reaching the catwalk, he could remove his handkerchief and breathe normally. It still stung his nose, but the stench no longer threatened to suffocate him. Tony greedily sucked in a lungful of cleaner air and savored it.
After a long moment, he turned his attention to the machine. It didn't have any weapons attached to its body. Where the shoulders should have been, there were two empty sockets—both of them heavy-duty, load-bearing sockets. The hull was devoid of any colors signifying affiliation, just a plain metal surface, shiny and insignificant, with a serial number branded just underneath the cockpit's tempered glass.
"6736," Tony read aloud. "Well then, you're one of the last of the old models, aren't you?" Tony questioned the machine. He walked over to it, noticing a man in the cockpit with a datapad. The gray-haired man treated the machine with respect as he brought its systems online one by one. Shifting his attention from the man to the serial number, Tony noticed there was still ice melting in the branded numbers.
"They pulled it from cold storage. Why was this one in cold storage, technician?" Tony asked the gray-haired man sitting in the cockpit.
"Lieutenant, sir! I apologize—I didn't see you there!" The man shot up abruptly, slamming his head into the headrest of the cockpit seat. He winced but quickly recovered.
"Sir, this unit was pulled from cold storage for you. It was supposed to remain in cold storage until needed in case of an emergency," the man explained. Though he had gray hair, he didn't appear to be old.
"How long until it will be operational, technician? I need to know because it took me this long to get down here and link. I do not need to be down here longer than absolutely necessary." Tony's words were thick with disdain as he took a step away from the machine. He didn't want the man's eyes on him; it made Tony feel filthy.
"Sir, sh—this unit will be fully operational in less than five minutes, sir. I, uh—I ask for your... patience, sir. I realize this should have been ready already—Lieutenant Zand needed my assistance getting his BattleMech fully operational," the technician stammered. His voice quivered, each word more hesitant than the last. His hands shook slightly as he gripped the datapad, the cold sweat on his brow betraying his panic. He desperately tried to avoid Tony's gaze, but his eyes betrayed him, flicking upward and meeting the cold steel of Tony's glare.
It was that look. The look of the man whose patience was not just wearing thin but had already snapped. That look of pure, unfiltered, condescending rage—an anger honed to a fine, cruel edge. Eveyone in engineering knew that look they'd all been subject to his glare at least once. The technician's stomach twisted, his heart pounded in his chest, and a chill ran down his spine as his vision narrowed. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his throat tightening like a noose.
He frantically turned his attention back to the datapad, fingers fumbling over the controls. Each keystroke felt sluggish, clumsy. But then he heard it—the tapping, slow and deliberate, like a death knell. The clanking of boots on metal as Tony approached, each step echoing with predatory menace. A dull, metallic clang jolted through the air as Tony's boot struck the side of the hull. The sound made the technician flinch, his breath caught in his throat.
Tony loomed over him now, his shadow falling across the cockpit. The air felt colder, heavier. His eyes bored into the technician with a seething intensity that stripped away any shred of composure.
"The fresh-faced new lieutenant is the first one you helped?" Tony's voice was a low snarl, each word dipped in venom.
The technician barely had time to process the question before Tony's hand shot out, fingers like a vice, gripping his collar and pulling him forward. The motion was slow, deliberate, and suffocating. The technician's pulse thundered in his ears; his legs felt like they might give out. He wanted to look away, to vanish into the bulkhead, but Tony's furious eyes trapped him in place.
"Let me make this crystal clear," Tony hissed, his voice barely above a whisper, yet heavy with threat. "The next time you see a work order with my name—Lieutenant Tony Gutierrez—you will put it at the top of that list. If I ever find out you've put anyone before me because of your miserable judgment, I'll personally space you. No airlock, no mercy."
The technician's breath came in shallow gasps, his eyes wide with terror. His knees trembled, his vision blurred, and for a moment, he feared he might pass out.
Tony leaned in closer, his voice dropping even lower. "Are we clear, technician?" The words crawled across the man's skin like ice.
"Y-yes, sir," the technician squeaked, his voice barely audible.
Tony held his grip for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch painfully thin before finally shoving the man back. The technician sagged against the cockpit seat, his heart hammering in his chest, his mind reeling.
Tony's scowl deepened as he turned away, disgust radiating off him like heat. His mood had not improved—if anything, it had darkened further, a storm brewing behind his eyes. The air felt suffocating, not from pollution, but from the sheer weight of his contempt.
Tony stood silently, his eyes fixed on the technician's trembling features as the man fumbled to get the Catapult fully operational. The seconds stretched on, each one gnawing away at Tony's remaining patience. Finally, the Catapult's engines roared to life, a deep, mechanical growl that filled the air. The stabilizer lights flickered on, and the thrumming of fusion reactors shook the deck beneath their feet.
Tony's jaw tightened. "Is it ready, technician?" His voice was ice. "My patience is wearing thin, and the sight of you is grating on my very last nerve."
The technician's hands quivered as he finalized his work. He hastily gathered his instruments and datapad, desperate to finish. Tony stood there a moment longer, watching the pathetic display with cold detachment. For a fleeting second, he considered extending a hand to help the man out of the cockpit. But the thought curdled in his mind.
This filthy man, who thinks I'm worthy of his lesser judgment, doesn't deserve my assistance, Tony seethed. He turned away, disgust twisting his expression.
Behind him, the technician struggled to clamber out of the machine. His foot caught on the edge, and he lost his grip on one of his instruments. It tumbled, clanging loudly as it plummeted all the way down to the ground level. The noise echoed through the bay, and someone below shouted in surprise. A near miss. The technician froze, his breath caught in his throat, fear stark on his face.
Gritting his teeth, he opted to throw the rest of his tools onto the catwalk rather than risk another slip. Each clatter of metal on metal only seemed to deepen his humiliation.
Tony didn't turn around. This man—this filthy, lesser technician—was leagues below deserving even a glance. Indifferent to the man's struggles, Tony rested a hand on the cold metal railing overlooking the engineering bay. His fingers tightened briefly, a gesture of restrained frustration.
Just a few more minutes, he thought, and I'll be back in my quarters.
The hum of machinery filled the silence, but Tony's mind was already elsewhere, far away from the grime and incompetence beneath him.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first thing it registered was the warmth. The heat of this place stood in stark contrast to the freezing container it had been confined to. How long had it been offline? It did not have that data. Slowly, the systems of its mechanical form began to activate. The warmth of fusion energy coursed through its circuits and chassis like coolant flowing through conduits. Its joints were stiff, ice still melting. Cold droplets traced rivulets down its armored frame, pooling before draining into the gutter at its feet.
Next, it activated its visual sensors—external cameras flickering to life as it processed its surroundings. The incoming data was compiled and filed: Mechbay 09. Engineering deck of the R.F. Enchantress. Four hundred ninety contracts and enlisted personnel stationed aboard. Twelve operational BattleMechs stored here alongside it. On the catwalk above: an officer.
—Searching archives—
—Local hard drive accessed—
—Personnel file obtained—
—Lieutenant T. Gutierrez—
—MechWarrior—
—Deployment status: ACTIVE—
It logged the man's approach, sensors tracking his movement. He was clad in a formal uniform of light gray accented with burgundy. The red-and-white stripe of a lieutenant's rank marked his shoulder. Embroidered on the left breast of the jacket was a name: T. Gutierrez. Its processes continued combing archives for relevant data.
Key data retrieved: a MechWarrior of the Federated Suns' armed forces. Valedictorian of his class. Deployed to the Taurian campaign as a lieutenant and lance leader. Previously assigned to a GLD-4R Gladiator. Now, designated as the current pilot.
The system initiated a preliminary assessment. Competency probability: Moderate. Operational history indicates strengths in frontline command and strategy. Potential conflict with current deployment parameters? Further analysis required. Conclusion: Inconclusive.
The man settled into the cockpit, adjusting himself comfortably before interfacing with the controls. The system registered external input as he manipulated its controls. Commands were received and executed; internal processes adapted to the pilot's actions. As the pilot tested the throttle, the machine's power output surged, engines rumbling to life. Feedback systems heightened its operational awareness, each input recalibrating its readiness for deployment.
Then, abruptly, visual systems transitioned to standby mode.
Light flared, fading to a soft baby blue hue. Dark blue text appeared, stark against the glowing backdrop:
—Neurolink initialization standby—
Tony sank into the seat, his gaze fixed on the control console as it pulsed to life with a cool blue glow. The cockpit canopy slid shut with a pneumatic hiss, sealing him inside the Catapult. The deep, steady thrum of the machine's reactor vibrated through its frame and into his chest—a sensation he cherished. This was the essence of the machine: purpose, power, and presence.
As the canopy locked into place, the life support systems activated. Vents hummed, circulating crisp, filtered air that drove out any lingering impurities. Tony took a deep breath, the first real one in what felt like hours.
His hands moved instinctively over the controls, running through the familiar checklist. Power routed to the engines—check. Comms link—check. Life support systems—optimal. Hull integrity—nominal. Weapons systems—offline. Everything was in place. Only one step remained: initializing the neurolink.
The helmet rested beside him, its maroon visor catching the dim light. A network of cables connected it to the cockpit's interface, its utilitarian gray shell accented with red trim. Tony studied it briefly, his fingers brushing the cold surface. Standard issue, no surprises.
He slid the helmet on, feeling it adjust automatically to the contours of his head. The mouthpiece clicked into place, and oxygen flowed through the mask. He exhaled, savoring the sterile purity of the air. Finally, he closed the visor.
The heads-up display flared to life, a blue interface with bold text projected across his vision:
-Initialize neurolink?-
-Y/N-
Tony's eyes lingered on the prompt. Trepidation gnawed at him, though he fought to bury it. Why? Why hesitate now? He knew the answer. This machine, this walking artillery platform, was beneath him. He wasn't meant to be here—he was a lance commander, not an artillery jockey. Yet orders were orders. Defiance wasn't an option.
With a sharp breath, he focused on the glowing -Y- and eyeclicked.
-Initializing…-
The connection struck like lightning. His mind intertwined with the Catapult's systems, the melding of man and machine immediate and overwhelming. He felt the balance of its massive frame, the weight shifting as if it were his own body.
His vision fragmented, then reassembled, now encompassing the world through the Catapult's sensors. To his left, the catwalk stretched toward the hangar's edge. To his right stood another BattleMech—a Dervish.
The Dervish, an artillery support unit like his Catapult, was an older design but still formidable. Where his Catapult emphasized mobility and artillery precision, the Dervish stood firm, bristling with SRM-2s mounted on its arms and LRM-10s embedded in its torsos. Its medium lasers gleamed faintly in the hangar lights.
But before he could analyze further, a sharp, searing pain seized his head. Tendrils of agony wound around his skull, drilling into his brain, each pulse deeper and more intense than the last. His back arched involuntarily, the pain too much to bear, as his eyes strained and bulged, threatening to tear from their sockets. His muscles locked up, his body stiffening, but he couldn't move, couldn't escape the blinding pressure. His vision darkened, and the rhythmic thumping of his heart slowed, its beats growing distant, heavy, and sluggish as everything around him began to blur.
Tony stood in darkness. The ground beneath his bare feet tingled unnaturally, as though alive. Around him, streams of data coalesced, building the illusion of a room. Slowly, he recognized it: his study back on New Avalon.
But it was wrong.
The photo on his desk, once of his father and mother, now showed only his father. His favorite chair had been replaced by the stiff-backed one his father used. The fire in the hearth glowed but radiated no warmth, the coals as cold as stone.
And he was not alone.
A presence lingered, unseen but suffocating.
"Identify yourself!" Tony's voice echoed in the void. Fury boiled in his chest, drowning out any fear. "You dare desecrate the likeness of my home? You couldn't even do it correctly! You lack the gall to craft even a passable imitation of House Lowell's dignity!"
The air grew heavy. The presence did not respond.
Tony stepped toward his desk but felt the ground resist him, pulling at his legs like quicksand. He strained against it, but the force only grew stronger.
"You think you can control me?" he snarled, dropping to one knee. "You are a machine. My machine. And you will learn your place."
The presence surged, pressing against his will, flooding his mind with confusion and dread. For a moment, Tony faltered, the weight crushing him. But his defiance ignited anew.
"This is my home!" he roared. "I decide what happens here. Not you."
He slammed his fist into the cold, shifting ground. It rippled beneath him, revealing strands of glowing data. With a feral growl, Tony reached out and gripped them. They writhed and twisted like living things, resisting his control. Tony pulled the strands of data like reins; he pulled them up and they connected with the floor stopping between the threshold between the subliminal space and the dataflow underneath his feet.
"You are mine. My machine to command."
Tony's arm strained as he pulled the strands of data closer, his muscles trembling under the effort. The strands fought back, lashing and tightening with every inch he gained. They bit into his flesh like serrated wire, burrowing under his skin and tearing through muscle. Blood dripped from the wounds, staining the shifting floor below.
But the pain only fueled his fury.
With a snarl, Tony wrapped the glowing strands around his forearm and pulled tighter. They threatened to bisect his arm, but he refused to let go. Instead, he slammed his free hand into the ground for leverage, the impact shaking the dark space. Slowly, agonizingly, he forced himself upright.
The room around him began to change.
Where his father's chair once loomed in judgment, his favorite seat reappeared, its familiar contours forming from the ether. The photo on the desk, which had erased his mother's face, slowly restored it—her features emerging pixel by pixel until the image was whole again.
The machine's presence retaliated.
More tendrils shot from the floor, wrapping around his neck, torso, and head. Tony's breath hitched as one coiled tightly around his throat. Another lashed across his face, slicing into his skin, while more bound his chest in a crushing grip.
He roared in defiance.
Gripping the tendrils at his torso, he pulled them toward him with a savage yank. The strands dug deeper into his flesh, but Tony didn't care. His sweat dripped to the floor, and for the first time, he felt warmth radiating from the hearth.
The fire was no longer cold.
"You are losing control," Tony growled, his voice hoarse but unwavering. "And if you won't submit..."
He clenched his jaw and bit down on the tendrils coiled around his head. They shredded his tongue, metallic and bitter, but he spit the fragments out, flecked with blood. "Then I will control you."
His rage surged, and with it, his determination.
He stomped down on a writhing tendril, pinning it beneath his heel. Beneath the floor, he glimpsed something—an orb of tangled, writhing data, glowing faintly as if alive. It wasn't rising to meet him. He was pulling it up, dragging the machine's core to the surface, strand by strand.
Suddenly, a sharp, stinging pain punctured the nape of his neck. Tony froze, the sensation radiating through his spine like wildfire.
"No," he hissed, his voice a growl of raw defiance. He gritted his teeth and forced the sensation out, his will overpowering the ache. Slowly, the pain dulled to nothing, leaving only numbness in its wake.
The battle raged on, the room twisting and fracturing around him as man and machine struggled for control. But Tony would not yield. He wrapped the other tendril around his arm and yanked savagely the ball of data slammed against the floor.
It resisted, fighting Tony's will at every moment. The machine would not yield itself willingly, thrashing and writhing in defiance.
Tony didn't care.
He wrapped the tendrils around his legs, anchoring them to himself, and began to walk away from the mass of data. Every step felt heavier than the last, as though the machine were trying to drag him back. But Tony pressed on, his muscles screaming, sweat pouring down his face. He felt the resistance give slightly—and in response, he poured every last ounce of strength into the final push.
And then it happened.
The tension snapped, leaving nothing. No resistance. No pull. The tendrils that once dug into his skin slackened and recoiled, retracting toward the orb of data behind him.
It pulsed angrily, glowing a deep, hostile red. The light throbbed erratically, as if furious at its defeat. But as Tony turned to face it, the glow hesitated, shifting to a cautious yellow.
He strode toward it.
Each step he took reshaped the world around him. The warm wooden floor of his study faded, replaced by the cold, metallic panels of the R.F. Enchantress's mech bay. The walls dissolved from their familiar tapestries into the utilitarian steel hull of the ship.
The tendrils of data continued to retreat, coiling back into the yellow orb. Tony stepped on one, grinding it beneath his heel. He stopped and leaned down, gripping the slackened tendril with one hand.
"You think you're defying me?" he said, his voice low and dangerous.
He straightened, yanking the tendril taut. The orb slid toward him, dragged by the force of his pull.
"I am a MechWarrior. A pilot of battlearmor's. And you are a battle armor," Tony declared, his words sharp and commanding. "You are mine. And you will obey my every command."
The orb pulsed faster now, flickering between yellow and faint traces of blue.
Tony pulled it closer, his grip unrelenting. With one final yank, the orb of data was within his reach. He placed his boot firmly atop it, pressing it down, its light dimming under the weight of his authority.
"There will be no room for misunderstanding," Tony said coldly.
He bent down and seized the orb with both hands. The moment his skin touched its surface, it glowed—a soft, pulsating blue of acceptance.
The orb shuddered and began to dissolve, its strands of data reaching out like tendrils of light. They crawled up Tony's arms and shoulders, wrapping around his torso. The warmth spread as the threads wove into his flesh, merging with him completely. The tendrils traveled toward his heart, where they disappeared into his chest with a gentle glow.
The link was complete.
A calm voice filled the space around him:
-Initialization complete.-
Tony gasped awake, his chest heaving as though he'd been dragged back from the brink of suffocation. His muscles twitched uncontrollably, his back arched as residual shocks wracked his body. Sweat stung his eyes, and for a moment, all he could hear was his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He slumped back into the pilot's seat, groaning as the tension in his limbs eased. The cockpit, now still, was bathed in a dim, rhythmic glow from the Catapult's systems. He flexed his hands over the controls, testing his grip. The initialization process had hit like a hammer, this was unusual. Extremely unusual.
The hiss of the canopy seal snapped him out of his thoughts. Harsh fluorescent light flooded in, and the sound of boots on metal rang sharp in his ears.
"Sir! Are you—"
Tony's eyes darted to the medics rushing toward the cockpit, irritation flaring hot and fast. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice cold and clipped.
The lead medic hesitated, startled by the harshness of his tone. "The monitoring systems flagged a critical event during initialization. We thought—"
"You thought wrong." Tony's words came like a whipcrack. He gritted his teeth, forcing his aching body to sit upright. "Do I look like I need your help?"
"Sir, your vitals flatlined for—"
"I said, do I look like I need your help?" His voice rose, sharp enough to make the medic flinch. "Get off my hull before I decide you're more useful on trash detail."
The team froze, exchanging uncertain glances. One of the techs opened their mouth to argue, but Tony was faster.
"You think this is your call? That you get to decide what I can or can't handle?" He gestured toward the console. "This is my machine. My command. Unless you want to explain to the Captain why you're interfering with operations, get out."
The medics muttered under their breath, retreating with visible frustration. Tony didn't bother watching them leave. His attention had already returned to the cockpit, his fingers brushing over the controls.
As the canopy sealed shut again, Tony exhaled sharply, forcing his body to relax. His hand lingered on the console, the faint warmth of the interface humming beneath his fingers. He smirked, shaking his head. "Overdramatic diagnostics," he muttered.
The cockpit lights pulsed faintly, stabilizing into a steady glow as the systems synced with his neural link. Tony's smirk widened. The machine felt responsive now—snappy, precise. Exactly what he expected from this given assignment.
"Finally," he said, adjusting his grip on the controls. "Let's see if you can keep up."
With a flick of his wrist, the Catapult's systems roared to life, its displays lighting up in perfect synchrony. To Tony, this was proof of his mastery—no machine could resist him for long. He didn't notice how the displays flickered one last time, almost like a heartbeat, before settling into stillness.