[M4F] [First Debut] “Get Off the Slut and Into the Fucking Titan, Shane.”

One decade ago, an extraterrestrial (ET) emerged from a spontaneous tear in reality, now known as a Fracture, before the Golden Gate Bridge. Spanning several city blocks, the quadrupedal behemoth ravaged San Francisco and took 50,000 lives before the U.S. Armed Forces took it down. After similar phenomena of varying sizes occurred several more times in the following months, the world accepted this new reality, formed the Global Defense Initiative (GDI), pooled its resources, and threw away old rivalries for the greater good. To fight monsters, the GDI created monsters of their own: Titans.

Ranging from 10 to 75 meters tall, Titans are mech-style bipedal military exoskeletons solely built to exterminate ETs. Their human operators, Pilots, could either control a Titan from its cockpit’s mechanical controls or directly link their nervous system to a Titan through a series of cybernetic data ports surgically implanted into the Pilot’s spinal cord. The latter allowed them to mentally manipulate the Titan’s armaments and chassis as though they were an extension of the Pilot’s own body, vastly improving their combat performance. Additionally, Titans of the mightiest class, Vanguards, could only be operated by Pilot duos using such neural links, but all individual pilots had neural link compatibility issues, so seamless integration with any available pilot wasn’t possible.

Pilots have mortality rates of 91% and 42% in their first and second years of service, respectively. Fewer want to go under the knife. Suitable Vanguard operators are fractions of fractions. But because Titans are only as good as their Pilots, exemplary Pilots naturally become celebrities and enjoy significant fame, luxury, and sex, compounded with each kill and year added to their belt. As the GDI’s most seasoned veteran of 7 years, 3 more than the second longest serving Pilot, Shane Martin is recognizable even to suburban minivan moms from the cosmetics in his likeliness on whatever edition of Battlefield or Call of Duty they bought for their sons.

Incidentally, that’s the line the MILF brunette bombshell - now in bed with Shane - used last night, which brings us to the present: the morning after. There’s also a third, who, while similarly sexy, is not under the sheets with them.

“Out. Now.” Allison Hendricks, Shane’s personal handler and dispatcher, scowls as she stands beside the entwined pair, rapidly snapping her fingers at them. Unlike the morning rays that gently stream through the floor to ceiling windows in Shane’s penthouse suite, this hourglass blonde - with a bust showcased by a tight cardigan as prominent as her resting bitch face - isn’t friendly and she’s more than accustomed to acting Shane’s human airhorn to shoo away his carnal distractions after their expiration, sometimes even before.

When Shane’s one night stand returns from the bathroom holding out a napkin with her number scrawled on it, Allison’s derisive expression is so terrifying that it stops the brunette from approaching him. Instead, she hesitantly places the cloth on the wet bar across from the bed. “So, uh… call-”

“He’ll be busy. Clandestine operation and whatnot.” Allison interrupts. A curt head jerk prompts security to herd the woman away, relieving Shane from the burden of recalling Whatshername’s name. With the brunette gone, Allison immediately shreds the souvenir and drops its tatters into a wastebin, “Is she married?”

“Divorced. Or claims to be.”

“I thought you’re seeing Michelle.”

“Out with her boyfriend last night.”

“You know, if you knock up-”

“That’s why I pull out.”

“And do you?”

With Whatshername’s removal, there’s no need to pretend that he’s too hungover to see her off, so with a sigh and offhanded shrug, Shane lazily struts over to the wet bar below the wall-mounted flatscreen wider than the average living room wall. While doing so, he stretches, twisting his torso from side to side and lifting his arms either overhead or out to the side. It's not difficult to see why Shane has featured on Pilot recruitment commercials for the last 3 Super Bowl and NBA playoffs: traditionally handsome, wealthy, in his physical prime, the paragon of humanity’s stalwart defense against the ETs but also the world’s secret heartthrob.

Though his endless sexual appetite could be disparaged, Allison can’t help but begrudgingly admire his movement. It exuded the air of someone who owned something so thoroughly it wasn’t worth mentioning - the difference between a first time Lamborghini owner and someone who had a collection they rarely drove. Despite the heavy currents of muscle rolling throughout his body, his gait is astonishingly light and places the lowest weight possible on his foot with every step, as if each footfall proclaimed that anything that didn’t directly lead to fighting or fucking wasn’t worth the effort. Even buck-naked with his manhood still wet from his latest conquest, he’s utterly unperturbed at being caught in yet another pussytrap as he plucks out the cork from last night’s Merlot with his teeth while flickering through the channels. “Want some? There’s about a glass left.”

Whether Shane’s demeanor is casual confidence to the extreme or an existential nihilistic crisis from shouldering the world’s expectations and regularly facing death, Allison isn’t sure. Perhaps both. For all the optimism, courage, and security he inspires, there’s moments of melancholy, aimlessness, and pity - this being Allison’s latest. “I’m good.” She answers.

After he finishes the bottle, Allison follows Shane to the bathroom, pushes through her thoughts, and begins flicking through her iPad’s dossier, allowing her usual businesslike demeanor to take over. “You and two other Pilots will land on Chesapeake Bay’s west shore, where a small Fracture will open in T-minus 4 hours. Central’s expecting a half dozen Class 1 ETs, so Arondight’s been equipped with a standard loadout. But overall: a simple, small mission; no incendiary weaponry to avoid an unnecessary fire.”

“Got it. I’ve a date at 8. Think I’ll be back in time? She’s in the area doing some modeling work; maybe she’ll even do some for me.”

Allison opens her mouth to retort, but suppresses the urge. Silence stretches as she watches Shane wash up. At one point, he lifts his shoulder-length hair up with one hand and gingerly traces the perimeter of the gaping circular data socket on his neck with a grimace. Her ordinarily glacial expression melts almost imperceptibly. Though he perceives this shift from the corner of his eye, he brushes past the moment by swiftly fashioning his coffee-colored curls into a tight bun.

“Rachel wouldn’t want this, you know.” Allison mutters, attempting to prolong the moment. She’s nudged him similarly before, but the wound seems to sting just as much as it did 2 years ago, even if he’s improved at blowing her off. “She would’ve wanted you to move on.”

More silence. Then a sigh, “It’s the things we want most that we can’t have. So,” he remarks with newfound upbeatness. I’ll just have to settle for second best until I see her again.”

“And this is that second best?”

“Well, not last night, but I've got a couple close contenders in my book.” With a mirthless chuckle that barely illuminates his viridescent eyes, he turns towards and appraises Allison’s figure in her outfit. “You know, you look-”

“No.” Classic deflection. Always pretending it's your dick at the helm.

“-damn.” Another pause. “You know, I could actually do my writeup without possibly leaking confidential information if it was you. Just saying.”

Allison’s lips purse into a thin crease. “Maybe. If you keep collateral damage to a minimum.”

---

Meet Shane, a jaded mecha-pilot from a world in a perpetual standoff with Godzilla-like monsters that threaten to destroy human civilization.

I doubt we’ll extensively roleplay any combat scenes, but it’s on the table. I’d rather explore the contradiction between the pilots’ luxurious lifestyles and how they face or ignore their imminent mortality by confiding in their peers, drinking away their sorrows, or in Shane’s case, banging anything that moves to unsuccessfully cope with his Pilot fiancée’s (Rachel) demise 2 years ago in lieu of his crippling inability to pursue anything seriously romantic.

You and I will share control of side characters and each play a main character. Your main character is entirely up to you, though a new or existing co-pilot/colleague is ideal. I anticipate the primary relationship has a FWB dynamic where both sides enjoy what little time they have left in a somewhat sexy mecha slice of life, if you will.

If you’re interested, Allison could be your character. In my mind, she’s known Shane from the beginning and watched his relationship with Rachel blossom before her horrific death, leading to the present day. She’s judgmental, but understands that everyone processes grief differently, especially for those who still reluctantly carry the world’s expectations on their back. I like to think that he seriously likes her, but is reluctant to commit to anything further with the knowledge that he could leave a hole just as big in her heart as Rachel did in his.

There’s also some worldbuilding stuff I might want to do on the side, though I couldn’t fit it into the prompt itself. For example, I think it’d be interesting if ETs and Fractures were accompanied by outcrops of a highly coveted mineral known as Tiberium, incentivizing countries to compete for it with their Titan programs.

My Profile. Read for kink list, writing style and expectations. Google Docs and Discord only.

!Yes, yes, I am a shameless sci-fi thief. Punish me, preferably with pussy.!<