Whiplash stands in the far end of the hangar, towering and still, her obsidian-plated frame crackling with residual current.The lights along her chassis glow amber-gold, pulsing slow and steady. A heartbeat. I stumble forward, stopping only when the heat from the mech’s core makes the air shimmer.
No one else is moving.
They’re scared. The engineers. The cadets. Even the veterans.
They know what this means.
The Meld doesn’t self-initiate. Not without a pilot. Not without a match. It’s not just machinery—never has been. It’s connection. It’s soul. It’s will. And right now, Whiplash isn’t syncing to someone inside her cockpit.
She’s syncing to someone out there.
Naull.
“Where is he?” I whisper, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud.
No one answers.
I press a palm to the mech’s leg. It’s warm. Familiar. Like skin in a fever-dream.
“Talk to me,” I murmur. “Come on. You never shut up when I needed sleep. Don’t go quiet now.”
A low hum vibrates beneath my hand.
Not just sound.
Feeling.
And then?—
Flash.
A burst of image. A fragment. Sand ripping past a visor. A shadow the size of a building. Naull’s voice, low and guttural, saying my name like it’s the only thing he remembers.
Then gone.
I stagger back, heart in my throat.
He’s alive. Hurt. Alone. And fighting something I can’t see.
“Commander.”
The voice behind me belongs to one of the Meld technicians. Pale. Sweating. Holding a slate that’s blinking red with unfamiliar telemetry.
“This signal—it’s localized. Not broadcast. She’s not reaching out… she’s pulling in.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, breathless.
“It means Whiplash isn’t looking for a pilot.”
I turn to him, something bitter curling under my ribs.
“She’s waiting.”
He nods. “For you.”
I stare back at the mech. My mech. Our mech.
And I understand.
