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There’s a quick flash of light and you feel your body become weightless, a white beam of energy burning both hot and quiet—a shooting star. You’ve felt this before, and you think you know when, but your thoughts are interrupted when you find yourself sitting awkwardly in a smooth, luxuriously upholstered chair.
Distantly you hear the combined sounds of excited whooping and confusion from below, but it’s hard to focus on much else besides how cramped the cockpit is, how constricting the bodysuit… And you somehow managed to hit your head during entry. It all feels very metaphorical. Most things do when you become inextricably linked with a seemingly omniscient force at a young age.
The others seem to think you’ve done this before; among the group Vesper is yelling your name and Altare is giving you a thumbs up, which you wouldn’t be able to see or hear at your current height if not for the many purple-hued screens that blink on around you, feeding you information from beyond your metal shell in streams of beeps and numbers.
In a way you have done this before. You were told being able to pilot just about anything really stood out when you were recruited to the guild, but this is a different kind of machine entirely. This is what has been waiting for you on the end of that bargain all those years ago, although something in your gut tells you it’s more like the very start.
You’re about to say something, but the R-TRUS’s ignition key—that cumbersome tail attached to your new uniform—has plugged itself in without you realising. You're never sure if it's instinct, or something else. The hangar’s roof opens above you and the R-TRUS suddenly jets upwards into a big blue expanse, the loud whirring of the engines sounding a lot like laughter.
“Don’t do that!” Flayon yells. The theatrics nearly give him a heart attack, arguably one of his least favourite ways to go out.
There’s little much he can do as he’s pressed against his seat by the force of the ascent, the R-TRUS apparently hellbent on climbing higher and higher into the sky. The sun’s bristling white tendrils appear closer than the guild, now a shrinking speck, and soon they reach a comfortable cruising altitude. If only he could calm down being so high up, or so large; he can feel the anatomy of the R-TRUS as a shadowy extension of his own body. Without thinking he flexes his fingers to see if the machine’s gleaming claws will do the same.
“You look cool like this,” Flayon tries again, casually, his usual attempt at making peace with a situation as quickly as he can.
The R-TRUS says nothing. He’s been quiet lately, not that he ever talks all that much. Flayon suspects this current silence is because he knew they’d be meeting like this very soon. He always seemed to know these kinds of things ahead of time.
Flayon tries not to let that thought bother him, instead looking at the array of buttons on the control panel, gleaming in different colours like pieces of candy. Though there’s not much to do there either. He’s as easily acquainted with their functions as he would be learning to breathe in and out.
So he does just that. Breathes in and out.
In—
The sky is neverending. He has the chilling realisation that this is his new upper limit, in as literal a sense as possible. Flying too close to the sun is not an unfamiliar concept to him anymore. It hasn't been in a long while—he's had more scrapes with death than a person really ought to have. Is able to have.
That makes him think. Is he really even human anymore? The immense metal husk surely begs to differ. Hubris only separates humans from gods because the sun melts through wax, not huge fucking mechs—
—Out.
You’re starting to panic.
“Oh, so now you want to talk to me!” Flayon retorts. Then he immediately bristles at himself for sounding so childish. “Sorry. I don’t like when you ignore me.”
I apologise. The R-TRUS responds in his calm, disaffected voice. I was thinking.
“About?”
About earlier. I was trying to make you look cool.
Flayon is almost speechless with embarrassment. “What?!” he yelps. “Why? I feel like you scared the shit out of everyone. They probably think I’m dead right now.”
Not possible. We are not even that far out.
“Far out for you would be space or something, I bet.” Flayon mutters.
Whenever the R-TRUS doesn’t respond, Flayon takes that to mean, “Yes, Flayon. You are so right, Flayon.” He wants to say that. He just sighs.
Are you upset?
“No. Just… getting used to the thinner air.”
The cockpit is pressurised.
“I’m not upset,” Flayon assures him, and he means it this time. They’ve taken to cruising around, getting Flayon used to this new yet familiar feeling. “It’s just weird. All this power. All this…” he waves his hands around vaguely, "presence.”
Naturally he’s gained a bit of height, too, an observation he makes solely because it’s something the others like to tease him with. It’d be easy to turn that on its head now. Height is an artificial game.
See, If he thinks a little more creatively, changes his perspective a little, he can better embrace the positive sides of commandeering a death-defying, fate-enforcing robot.
The R-TRUS breaks the silence this time. I have not been honest, Flayon.
“How so?” Flayon asks. “I don’t think lying is something you’re really capable of, right…?”
Earlier. I was also trying to look cool in front of you.
“Huh?” Flayon sputters.
You have not seen me like this before.
“Right…” He's not sure where this is going.
The R-TRUS continues. Usually, I am much smaller. Less weaponry, if you find that important. I was unsure what you would think.
Admittedly, the R-TRUS mostly comes across as less of a being with a soul than it does a sort of disembodied consciousness inhabiting a bite-sized metal creature. Hence Flayon’s tendency to view him as stern, if not a bit unfeeling.
Then occasionally there are moments like this, where the R-TRUS feels a bit too human.
“Honestly, I was a bit worried you were going to prank me.” Flayon says eventually, having not been totally honest himself. “Like, you'd suddenly start spiralling towards the ground and then swoop up at the very last second.”
Why would I do that?
“I don’t know!” Flayon yells. “I have issues!”
The R-TRUS makes another low sound like he did earlier. Like laughter.
Flayon sees the guild steadily coming back into view. He thinks he can guess what the R-TRUS is thinking.
“Ready to stick the landing?” Flayon grins mischievously. He takes the controls into his hands for the first time. They feel so familiar.