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Entry tags:
Giant Robots: The Flesh is Weak
The Flesh is Weak
Prompt: Hurt/Comfort bingo's brainwashing, Stuff100's Hours
Word Count: 500
Summary: When M.D.'s plugged in, she is joyous. Giant robots verse, and sponsored by Michael Sondberg Olsen!
When M.D. and Biff pilot, everything is quiet. They can skip the cumbersome middle-man of sound and communicate through the quicksilver mediums of thought and feeling, sensory ghost and subconscious hunch, working together in a smooth everlasting mental dance. It takes a couple of rounds before Choi pounds into them that no, they need to speak, for the ground crew's benefit. Eventually, Biff gets slightly accustomed to constantly braying everything they're doing. He has to be the talker, because M.D. can't do it. Once she's plugged in, she's gone.
When she's plugged in, there is no pain, no fatigue. She can leave her frail, failing body behind and inhabit the clean, precise ideals of ones and zeroes. She's no longer that sick, scrawny thing who takes a rainbow of pills every day and needs forearm crutches to get around. In a Jaeger, she is ten stories high, she is power, she is steel and titanium and lightning and Uranium-235 and she is a god.
With a Jaeger, she can do anything. With her braces, she can level cities, move mountains, run under oceans. With helicopters, she can fly. With Biff, she can save the world. For just a little while, a brief eternity, she can be the transcendent electric force of nature that she was always intended to be, and it is beautiful. She is beautiful.
There's only one problem. Eventually, she has to come down.
Biff always gives her a ten-minute and a five-minute warning, but she always pretends not to notice them. It's always the sign of the impending end. Then, when the timer hits zero, his mind brushes against hers, a gentle reminder: time to come home now. She resists—she always resists. No, please, not yet, she's not done yet, she wants to keep soaring, she wants to stay high, please, please, let her stay high... but he knows her too well, and his mental grip turns to steel and he slowly, gently pulls her back down to earth. Down to the fragile sack of decomposing meat, down to the miserably flawed earth and the insects that crawl upon it, down to fallibility and imperfection and being the object of pity of an entire island. Agony.
But she lets him do it. Though he controls it, he can not hide his envy of her experience, because while he can be plugged into her, he can't be plugged into the Jaeger itself. He can experience her elation, but that won't make it his. He has to stay firmly planted, or else they'll never leave, just rot in their braces until dehydration claims them both. And while M.D. might consider that a fair bargain, in the grips of her ecstasy, he knows better. And when she has her feet on the ground again, she does too. She needs to come back down, if she wants to ever pull another run. Someone has to take care of Biff.
Besides. It wouldn't be any fun without him.
Prompt: Hurt/Comfort bingo's brainwashing, Stuff100's Hours
Word Count: 500
Summary: When M.D.'s plugged in, she is joyous. Giant robots verse, and sponsored by Michael Sondberg Olsen!
When M.D. and Biff pilot, everything is quiet. They can skip the cumbersome middle-man of sound and communicate through the quicksilver mediums of thought and feeling, sensory ghost and subconscious hunch, working together in a smooth everlasting mental dance. It takes a couple of rounds before Choi pounds into them that no, they need to speak, for the ground crew's benefit. Eventually, Biff gets slightly accustomed to constantly braying everything they're doing. He has to be the talker, because M.D. can't do it. Once she's plugged in, she's gone.
When she's plugged in, there is no pain, no fatigue. She can leave her frail, failing body behind and inhabit the clean, precise ideals of ones and zeroes. She's no longer that sick, scrawny thing who takes a rainbow of pills every day and needs forearm crutches to get around. In a Jaeger, she is ten stories high, she is power, she is steel and titanium and lightning and Uranium-235 and she is a god.
With a Jaeger, she can do anything. With her braces, she can level cities, move mountains, run under oceans. With helicopters, she can fly. With Biff, she can save the world. For just a little while, a brief eternity, she can be the transcendent electric force of nature that she was always intended to be, and it is beautiful. She is beautiful.
There's only one problem. Eventually, she has to come down.
Biff always gives her a ten-minute and a five-minute warning, but she always pretends not to notice them. It's always the sign of the impending end. Then, when the timer hits zero, his mind brushes against hers, a gentle reminder: time to come home now. She resists—she always resists. No, please, not yet, she's not done yet, she wants to keep soaring, she wants to stay high, please, please, let her stay high... but he knows her too well, and his mental grip turns to steel and he slowly, gently pulls her back down to earth. Down to the fragile sack of decomposing meat, down to the miserably flawed earth and the insects that crawl upon it, down to fallibility and imperfection and being the object of pity of an entire island. Agony.
But she lets him do it. Though he controls it, he can not hide his envy of her experience, because while he can be plugged into her, he can't be plugged into the Jaeger itself. He can experience her elation, but that won't make it his. He has to stay firmly planted, or else they'll never leave, just rot in their braces until dehydration claims them both. And while M.D. might consider that a fair bargain, in the grips of her ecstasy, he knows better. And when she has her feet on the ground again, she does too. She needs to come back down, if she wants to ever pull another run. Someone has to take care of Biff.
Besides. It wouldn't be any fun without him.