With this particular short, the PTSD is a direct result of the indoctrination process for folks like the MC. The Imperium uses all kinds of nasty shit to produce what are essentially zealotous soldiers. For pilots, the machine is the only physical form they have that can express itself in any capacity, which is alluded to in the prequel I posted later.

I took the prompt a little literally in that sense. The true horror of what they are is something very few of them actually come to terms with and offset that horror by what their between fifty and two-hundred ton war machines can do.

Feedback welcome. I know the followup is gonna hit and read a little different.

Wish granted

As requested by a couple of folks, I give you the Prequel to Tank-Borne.

Upon the Shoulders of Giants.

​

Another warp-lane, another contested planetary system.

Another battlefield.

New Terra is far from a new battlefield. It isn’t even a new planet. What New Terra is, however, what it represents, is the a renewed cradle for humanity in an uncaring universe. One of precious few planets with no intelligent indigenous species to lay claim, no alien civilizations with an interest in what would, to them, be yet another deathworld.

But to the fleet belonging to the Imperium in low orbit above the planet’s surface, it was just another Consortium world that they didn’t have the strength to hold.

Alarm claxons rang out in what Imperium soldiers not-so-affectionately called ‘The Pit.’ Battlemechs in various states of disassembly were being repaired and reassembled, armaments being swapped out for more field-appropriate gear. Tanks bearing the barely-human bodies of the pilots having their slurry flushed and refilled. Chemical stimulant and maintenance packs to keep the pilots operating for what was sure to be a lengthy siege, rather than the quick hostile takeover that command had implied during the mission briefings.

The final hour of their approach to Hot-Drop saw hundreds of ‘mechs assembled, their pilots slotted into the central core of the titans of steel. Compared to the pilots themselves, the ‘mechs had a tendency to look far more animatedly human with their pilots slotted rather than the hulking colossi they truly were.

Frontline variants were armed with up-scaled rifles similar to their human counterparts, albeit scaled up to fit the between thirty and fifty foot armored frames of the massive bipedal models.

Smaller quadrupedal scout models bore racks of missiles across their backs along with advanced sensor and communication suites along with target designation hardware that would allow them to call battlefield support, provide enhanced radar and map coverage, and, ultimately, call in orbital support for surgical strikes upon hardened targets.

Rather than a heavier loadout as the name would imply, Assault variants with their heavier power plants carried every manner of electronic warfare and countermeasure imaginable. They had, by now, become the Imperium’s calling card, because when the Assault ‘mechs hit the ground, the blackouts would roll, plunging enemy forces into chaos when their communications suddenly ceased to exist.

And finally, the Trenchman variants; quickly becoming the relic of a bygone age. Operated almost exclusively by convicts and social undesirables, they were the bulk of the ‘footsoldier’ mechs. Heavy shocktroopers with piledriver shields, forty millimeter explosive chain-gun, and ammunition reserves enough to make even the most hardened veteran blush.

Lines were assembled on the drop floor. Pilots; those still able to think and feel for themselves began to shift their mechs from side to side in an eager show of pre-drop jitters. But, as before any operation such as this, the fleet Admiral made his appearance on the gargantuan holo-projector at the back of the bay. Always, the same four words.

“The Flesh is weak…” Soft spoken. A prayer, at least the first half of one.

The answering call of every man, woman, and battlemech was loud enough to shake the decks of the carrier as the drop-floor began to lower.

"BUT THE SPIRIT IS WILLING!"

————————————————————————————————————————————

Spitfire’s inertial dampeners fired perfectly. She was on target. The chemical cocktail coursing through her veins produced a simulacrum of manic glee that, had she a face within her pod, would be showing a rictus of teeth and bloodshot eyes. The last few hundred feet of her descent was little more than a spray of explosive rounds to clear and flatten her landing zone before her hundred-ton battlemech hit the ground.

Soften the ground, soften the landing.

Somewhere in the back of her consciousness, she ‘heard’ the scouts picking targets, the arm of the massive battlemech swinging in a wide arc and spraying ammunition without a care in the world for what- or more importantly, who she hit. Armored targets resisted the spray, but once she could get on the ground-

She ‘felt’ something smack into the dampener sled under her feet. Time seemed to slow even has her ‘mech began to pick up speed.

Hard earth shattered under her frame, the sled not so much shattering as crumpling, holes opening under her feet as she fell into a makeshift set of manacles binding her feet together. Around swings the pneumatic Pile concealed by her shield, jackhammering the twisted metal away from the feet of her battlemech.

The next impact she felt on her armored form landed squarely at the junction in her back and shoulder. A lucky shot that detonated her reserve ammunition.

Cassandra’s world was engulfed in flame. Her subsystems initiated a reactor dump to prevent an overload, flushed her system of the combat stimulants to simulate a crude hibernation, and her mech was put into recovery mode.

Her final lucid thought as her systems began a cascade of failures, and the first of it’s kind since she underwent indoctrination. Without eyes to cry, a mouth to scream, and control of her ‘mech wrenched away from her, she wondered if she’d finally be allowed to die.

That's... actually a good continuity for why the Imperium doesn't trust AI and their pilots are walking war crimes.

I'll be honest with you. I've never read any WH40k books, I don't play the tabletop, and the only game I've played is Darktides.

Why, is it good enough to be?

How so and in what way? I'm at work, so I can't do YouTube.

If I'm being honest, I drew a little bit from Gunhed mixed with some Battletech, Cyberpunk, and a lot of worldbuilding. I've got a whole universe mapped out, but not enough skill to turn it into a viable book.

Thank you I think? Heh.

I plan to have a prequel to the OP later tonight/early tomorrow morning.

I've actually never seen that to know what you're referencing. Thanks for the kudos.

Tried to go a little Grimdark/Cyberpunk. Took me a little longer than I'd like to admit to actually put this story together.

Gonna be a little bit of a wait as I've got sleep and work required before I can put more words to screen.

Should be able to knock out a prequel segment prior to her salvage.

*leading up to her salvage

See, now I wanna know what conclusions you drew.

Robali sat in her study in quiet contemplation, the ancient sword bared from the scabbard. Scales gleamed along the entire back of the single-edged sword, trailing well down along the crossguard and disappearing into the wrapped hilt.

A week had been given for the mourning of the former King Lucius Dragonblade. A week to contemplate her teachings before the inevitable time came when she would have to apply them. A week to watch her elder brother become the greedy wretch she'd always known him to be. Now though, she contemplated something else.

'Blood for Liberty,' etched in fine silver filigree along the razors edge of the blade. Something about the etching stirred something within her mind. A memory, though only judge at the very fringes of her consciousness. Something profound her father had once told her of what being a ruler would mean.

'The tree of Liberty must occasionally be refreshed with the blood of patriots and tyrants,' something seemed to whisper to her.

The voice didn't bother her, in fact, as it was often that she thought of the sword as a sentient thing as much as she knew it was a symbol of her family's rule over their corner of the world. Now though, it seemed more...

'Real?'

"Who's there?" Robali called out, stirred from her position and glancing around the study; finding only stacks of books and the sword her company.

Something seemed to draw her eye to the word 'Liberty.'

'We are no strangers, you and I. Our pact is sealed. Liberty has been refreshed with the blood of a Patriot.' Robali could almost swear she could sense hesitation in the disembodied voice. 'Your father was a truly good man. A good Paladin.'

Robali felt the involuntary clench of her jaw at the mention of the man her father had been. Ten years ago, perhaps. Toward the end, he just seemed... Tired. Ready to retire to a countryside to be forgotten, as if his death weren't a foregone conclusion.

'You will know the same weariness in time, child. Duty is a mountain that weighs not on the body, but the soul. Duty will always crush the spirit. It was time.'

"Is that why he asked to be set free?"

'Good men are few and far between, child. Most will see themselves live just long enough to begin to embody the very things they once swore against. Some will hang on to those morals until the end of their days. Rulers, as you now are, and as you must now be, must be able to change with the times.'

'There is a time though, when the people need the change.'

Robali slammed a fist against the table, causing the sword to rattle upon it. "That didn't mean he had to die! He could have just passed on the crown!"

'That is the pact, Robali. That is the pact your family made with me to rule these lands.'

"Are you a demon then? Am I bound to a devil in servitude?"

'No, child. Demons and devils would have no use for happy countrymen, full bellies, freedom, and secure borders. They would benefit most from the strife your brother would cause. Did benefit from the strife your late Uncle caused.'

Robali sat back in her chair as if physically pushed, anger leaving her faster than it had come upon her. All she could feel in that moment was grim acceptance for what would have to be done... And a quiet gratitude that she had a great many years before her own time would come.

"Duty is heavier than a mountain..." With a heavy sigh and wetness stinging at the corners of her eyes, Robali asked, "Will I ask for it in the end as well?"

'That's your story to tell, Queen Dragonblade. But this I can promise you.' The voice of the blade fades almost to imperceptibility.

'It will be light as a feather when we welcome you home.'

Anything in particular that sticks out or that could use some expansion? I might add to this after work.

Felt like a good touch to the prompt. I've got it in my head that it's tradition so the elder rulers can't poison the younger. A coming of age, but only for the worthy and those strong enough to bear the burden.

To be king is to bear the burdens of the people.

I've grown old. I've seen my people through both plague and famine, through banditry and corruption. I've borne and raised heirs; watched one succumb to greed, the other blossom into a flower of hope for the future. I've taught lessons, purged evils, and taken the burdens of my people upon myself as my father had. As his father before him. But, times change. As times change, so too must the rulers.

But I am old, and I am no longer what my people need.

"You're the best person I've ever known, sweet daughter," I said to her in the arena as I drew my blade.

I see a profound sadness in her eyes as she tells me that she'll regret my death more than any other in the world and can only shake my head as she draws her own blade. "No, Robali, not more. I'll only be the first. I may even be the most painful regret for a time, but there will be others. There must be others."
One last lesson, dear girl.

I kneel with my head bowed, blade presented on the backs of gauntlets battered by war and wait for her to take it from me. "The Heralds have spun the last of their tales of me and my exploits and I am too old now to be what the people need." My eyes open to see pristine sabatons on the sands of the arena before me. "It's time to end my story, Robali. Yours begins today, and I have one final lesson to impart to you."

Death is light as a feather. Duty, a mountain.

I feel the four-hundred year old sword leave the backs of my hands and lean back to sit on my heels, head held high. "Duty is ever the mountain you will bear on your shoulders, Robali. Nothing can be done to lighten its weight." A memory crosses my mind; an old once-friend I'd discovered had been unfairly taxing his people and skimming from the kingdom to line his own pockets. The feel of bloodied hair in my fingers as I held his head up for the people to see Justice done. "Show care in whom you trust to share the load." I can feel my voice break as tears roll down leathered and scarred cheeks.

My eyes are closed, but I can feel the tears in her gaze as she considers the space along my neck and the blade that's known the blood of every king and queen to bear it. "Death is the feather of release. Only in your death is your duty to your people over."

I let the silence linger, listening carefully to the repressed sob of a daughter about to lose her father by her own hand.

"It's time for my story to end, Robali. Set me free."