Clean Slate

Her overalls are disgusting. Between the smells of oil, sweat, and lemon-scented soap, she’s shocked she hasn’t fallen over dead. 

The hose in her hand buzzes with the steady thrum of pressurized water, grounding her in the present as much as possible. Streams of water shower the twenty foot combat frame and begins to chisel away the dirt and soot. The thing sits like a frog; legs tucked and knees high, shrinking it to about ten feet. She’ll have to shift it soon to get its back. For now, though, she’d rather stay unplugged.

She switches the hose for a sponge taped haphazardly to the end of a paint roller. A few drizzles of soap later, suds start to form across the left leg. Side to side, up and down, she scrubs. More pronounced things like solidified concrete powder and slag are scratched off with floor scrapers. The whole thing will need a paint job after this, but it isn’t her priority for it to look good. The only reason she bathes this thing like a dog is to keep it sleek, aerodynamic. Reduce drag.

Her rag runs over a large scratch on its knee. The ladder wobbles as she shudders, refusing to look at the deep scar while rinsing its insides.

She was stationed in a small research base on Vexar. The jungle was so dense that she almost didn’t see the flash of white between foliage. Hermes picked it up first on his sensors, screaming at her to open fire.

“Contact,” she shouted into her coms, letting the minigun spit molten rage into the trees. “NEC by the looks of it. There’s probably more of them.”

“Copy,” Winston responded. “Shield deployed.” The glowing dome of his IS Recharge field fell over them just in time to catch a spray of AR ammo. Whatever they were firing at was too comfortable in the trees.

“We need to take out some of the flora,” she called, gesturing to the walls of trees.

“But the Captain said no damage-”

“She said minimal damage,” she interrupted. “It’ll be minimal.”

Napalm shot from her extended arm before Winston could interject. What few trees didn’t immediately incinerate caught fire, pouring light into the forest. She almost wished she had listened to him. Bright orange light shone across a dozen combat frames. They looked like field spiders in a flashlight’s beam, all staring at the pair, waiting for their next move.

She raised her pulse rifle. To fire, she’d have to step back out of the field. She took one step forward and all twelve ARs ripped in response. Every shot bounced off the field, forcing her to stay put. If only she’d listened to Connie and brought the Murus instead. Napalm seemed wiser at the time.

“Backup,” Winston screams into his coms. “We need-”

A single shot, one that looked just like a bullet from her own rifle, sprung through the shield and right past her. Because of Hermes’s thinking speed, she watched it happen. Because of her own hesitation, she stayed put. 

One bullet. Straight through his cockpit. The IS Field fell and the NEC marched in.

She climbs back down the ladder, dropping the rag into a nearby trash bag. The repair is too expensive for her right now, but the moment she gets enough bits, she’s getting rid of the wretched thing.

Maybe she could bear to look at it if she’d gotten it while taking a stand. That’s how she told everyone she got it. 

She ran at full speed, driving Hermes nearly into the ground. Every tree, bush, and vine in her path gave way to the massive frame. A single mech followed her this far from the camp – a standard like hers, on the smaller side. The only light in the jungle was the beating glow of its plasma dagger like a hungry heartbeat.

She shakes her head. The memory doesn’t deserve the space it takes up. She left the Union that night, left it far behind her. As far as she’s concerned, they think she died alongside Winston. She should have.

Enough, she thinks, dipping her sponge in more soap mixture. She raises it to the frame and begins scrubbing its torso. The bubbles sink into three scratches in the distinct shape of claw marks.

Of all the things she fought after becoming a mercenary, the Hyenas are one of the nastiest. Her first encounter gave Hermes these scars. A smash-and-grab some pirates needed done in a Bishop facility.

The heat was unbearable. Every swipe and cut felt like lava pouring into her blood. Hermes was beginning to overheat and part of her wondered if she deserved to die like this. Killed by her own frame’s glorious explosion somewhere nobody would find her.

“Get off her,” Frank’s external speakers roared. He beat back all three of the nasty creatures with a massive buckler shield. “Get up, Rosanov. We’re not done here.”

She was amazed by him. Only three days of working together in the same company and he already risked it all to keep her alive. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met during the war.

It was a shame what happened to him on Persephone. Killed in action while helping what became the new regime. She likes to believe that the RSP will be better. Mech pilots in leadership positions, though, seems like an awful idea to her.

Pilots are a rare kind of person as is. Living pilots – even rarer. The ones who stay alive long enough to have memories are the ones who did horrible things to stay alive. The good-natured ones die early by the hands of the survivors.

An entire building of NEC recruits – children, children – smoldered in front of her. The op was simple before she knew it was a school. A small request of the Union’s to dwindle NEC numbers.

She can still hear screams every time she looks at the scorched metal just below the cockpit.

The students fought back hard. They were still so new, so green. They barely knew how to operate their frames outside of simulations, much less fight back two fireteams of experienced mercs who were getting paid to kill all of them.

“You did well,” her Captain told her. “Fastest we’ve ever finished a job, I think.”

She nodded inside her frame, unsure whether Hermes’s head bobbed like hers. 

“Let’s clear out before the big guns show up.”

The teams marched back into their respective dropships and she wasn’t far behind. The rear cameras on Hermes let her stare at the ruins of a school and wonder if those kids were better off dead than becoming someone like her.

“Faster, Rosanov. We’ve gotta get out of atmosphere.”

The worst part? She wasn’t sure if she felt anything beyond the relief of finishing the mission.

She gives a quick tug of her bangs. Her mind reels back to the present, and horrifically, looking right into the cockpit of Hermes. He stares back at her, empty and cold as ever. This view, the one she ogles at now on the top of her ladder, is so many people’s last.

Using some of the water on her gloves, she smooths back the light brown frizz that springs from her ponytail. She looks exhausted. Deep purple bags hang under her eyes, and her lips are dry and cracked. 

“Get it together, Rosanov,” she mumbles, wiping the soot and dust from Hermes’s glass. 

The frame looks good as new by the time she’s done, save for the obvious scrapes after four years of combat. She’s used all her spare hours cleaning him. Before too long, the diner will need a waitress, and she’ll have to pretend it’s her first job so the owners will keep her on. Carefully pinned braids and long sleeves hide every scar she’s tried to scrub away, including the intrusive jack at the base of her neck. Nobody wants to hire a killer. Not while they’re still killing.

“You should take a bath, Mattie.” Silena is leaning against the doorframe and eyes Hermes up and down. “How is it that your mech stays clean while you’re so filthy?”

“I ask myself that every day,” she mutters.

“Your diner shift is soon. You don’t wanna smell like grease and soap, right?” She saunters in and grabs a wrench to twirl in her hand. “I can clean his back if you want. Go do the one thing that keeps you sane, yeah?”

Mattie nods. “Sure. Thanks for helping.” She doesn’t utter another word before marching out of the bay to her room. It takes all of three seconds to strip and climb into the shower.

She begins to scrub the dirt from her limbs, letting her dirty hands slide over each scar and burn.

The Union. She feels the raised line that runs from her hip to her neck.

The pirates. From her jaw to her shoulder.

The mercs. From her heart to her ribs.

Hermes. The metal disk at the base of her neck.

Soap drifts from her body to the drain, carrying the external filth with it, leaving her to ruminate in the internal.

She remembers the broadcast on the net from Albert Nazari the day Kell was usurped.

“The war is over,” he’d said.

The war is over, she thinks. What’s done is done.

She dresses in a clean pair of jeans and simple checkered button up required of her by the diner. Her hair is carefully braided to cover her jack and her arms covered by compression sleeves. Every piece of evidence is well hidden.

Your slate is wiped clean. They’ll never know what you were.

Mattie slips on her boots, grabs her bag, and slips out of the merc headquarters. The streets of the Last Call are busy enough for her to walk unnoticed through the crowd.

But you are still disgusting.