Trans Goblin mechanic + Trans Orc mech pilot bang, with some superfluous fun worldbuilding thrown in there. A little bit of shower fucking, a little bit of cum retention.
Brief mention of non-sexual mech fighting violence at the start, and some aggressive sex in here but it's all consensual. Hope you enjoy!
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"Fucking Elves," Drella spat, shifting her mech's torso back in line with her legs. Ten, no, fifteen fast scout mechs were making their way toward her, ambling over the remains of suburban houses leveled since the first days of the invasion. Elegantly sculpted mithril feet crushed rusting old pickups flat, knocking over crooked basketball nets, or churned wild flower beds into muddy compost. Already the front rank was opening fire with their crossbows. Armour-piercing ballista bolts cut through the air to her left and right. One scored her mech's shoulder, sending pain-response through her neuralink helm. She winced, but didn't close her eyes. Those were locked on her assailants on the field below her; she wouldn't miss this for the world.
On either side of the ruined cul-de-sac, gatlings opened up from the other members of her squad. Humans, orcs, goblins, all firing in perfect drilled unison from their dugouts and spider holes. Depleted uranium slugs fired in staccato bursts chewed through the lightly armoured scouts, turning their reconnaissance force into a scrapheap. Cockpits cracked open and pilot escape pods shot out from compromised machines, evoking a perverse comparison to Alliance Day fireworks celebrations. The survivors fell back, autoloaders clicking on empty by the time they made it back behind cover. Drella held her fire. She wasn't standing at the top of the hill like a training target for no reason.
Emerging from behind the shell of a department store, the architect of this particular disaster emerged. A heavy Van'thir pattern mech, this one was all flowing curves and silken tabards. The curved scimitar in its hands was older than intelligent life on Earth, and the pilot a veteran of a thousand battles. But you got sloppy past your fifth century, Drella found. Sloppy and proud.
She keyed an open commlink to the battlefield, one anyone could receive, and spoke in Elvish. "Looks like you fucked this one up, can'thae. Human tactics are much more effective than you elders want to admit. Care to fight in the old style or do you want to get gunned down like a throg?"
The Van'thir plunged his blade into the soft earth before him. Duel it was, then. Her heart pounded. It may be hydraulic fluid being spilled rather than blood, but the fires of personal combat could ignite her blood in a way few other things could.
"Banshee Squad, hold fire," Drella said, switching to her encryption channel. She stomped down the hill, her own mech stepping over the ruins of the scouts who her team had scythed down, occasionally halting to allow a fleeing elf pilot whose pod hadn't popped. Her hand reached behind her back, tactile sense-response letting her hand feel the haft magneto-locked to her mech's spine.
"C'mon Sarge," a voice from her squad pleaded, "You know what the Commander said about solo combat."
She ignored him. "Corporal Jamison, round up the squad, keep them close by in case there are other forces on patrol around here. And radio back to HQ that we'll be returning to base soon."
She heard a sigh on the other end, but her mind was already off her responsibilities. She disengaged the magneto-locks, and the weapon came up over her shoulder clutched in her mech's right hand. Before the Alliance, all her people had were hand-me-down machines stolen or salvage from their Elven oppressors. But with the help of the Humans and Goblins and the scattered other species who had come to Earth, they could finally replicate the weapon of Drella's heritage in perfect scale to the giant mechanical suits in which they fought. In the lands of her birth it was called a Kortho Torok. In the human's local English, the best translation was The Butcher's Choice.
It was a big fucking axe.
"Rules of Honour?" the Elf asked over the open channel. It was an insult to ask that before a duel, but Drella figured he knew that. He swept the sword back into his mech's hands and entered a fighting stance.
"Of course. Wouldn't want you to have anything to hide behind when you tell your fellows that you lost," she replied in kind, voice perfectly casual. Inside, she worked to keep the adrenaline from overwhelming her tactical sense. She knew in her head this was foolish, that this was the kind of thing that her commander would chew her out over later. But gods above, it felt good to put these Elves to shame.
They circled each other, torso servos whining on occasion to keep facing. Some mechs could theoretically spin 360 degrees on their hips, but in practice that was rarely done. Neuralink, the connection between machine and pilot, was how they were able to be such an effective fighting machine. To do something its organic component could never do felt wrong, disquieting. Perfect sync between mind and metal was important, especially at the higher levels of mech combat. One glitch or misread signal and you were canned.
He wouldn't strike first, so she was more than happy to kick things off. A wild haymaker of a horizontal swipe at roughly cockpit height made him duck. He tried to turn that into a spring forward, slashing with the sword at her torso, but she kept the axe's momentum and bent her knees. Where the Elf thought he'd outsmarted a clumsy blow, he now met a heavy slashing attack that he could not easily dodge from. He tucked and rolled, mech showing surprising grace for its size. The axe's blade bit deep into the Elf's leg joints, popping the seals. There was no noise over the open commlink. It'd be a hot day in the Voidlands before a member of the High Chosen expressed so much as a grunt of frustration. At least, if they could help it.
By the time her legs were planted again, he struck out. Quick strikes with a surgeon's precision, aiming for the weak points in her armour. The Butcher's Choice was not a defensive weapon, but she made good use of both the hook on the other end of the weapon and the haft to block as much as she could. A moment's indecision cost her a chunk of chest armour, however. Pain sense shot through Drella's nervous system, just like a hunk of flesh had been severed. It sloughed off to the ground. Another wound, this time to her left arm. She raised it to block a blow and the sword cut deep. If it'd been her real arm, it have bit bone. Her rational mind faded, safeguards bled away. Despite all the spectrums of light that her mech's sensor package saw, all she could see herself was red.
"BLOOD FOR BLOOD," she howled, weapon already in motion. She overhand chopped, cleaving the dirt but catching nothing of her foe. Another sword swipe cut out the joint beneath her knee, causing it to buckle. She yanked the axe back out and swept with the hooked edge. It caught his leg. She yanked, and the Elf's mech fell ass-over-tea-kettle onto the muddy earth. Another executioner's swing brought back another huge clod of earth tossed into the air, but no squeal of buckling metal.
"The Alliance really shouldn't be promoting your kind, Ur'uk," he chided. "Brute force is more the purview of a labourer, not a commander. Might I suggest-"
Outraged screaming, and her axe was back out and after him. His dodging started confident, almost with a graceful swagger, but the swings kept their pace and he was running out of room in between strikes to reset himself. A slip of his heel. One of his dead mech's -- he hadn't been watching his step. The Elf tried to twist out of the way, but she let the blade dip down and to the left. It bit deep into his torso, blue fluid spurting out like a nicked carotid. Drella howled with triumph, the mechanical vitae gushing over her mech's weapon. He brought his sword to block the next blow, but her axe came down on his hand. Servos hissed and popped, armour cried out, but parted nonetheless. The severed hand fell uselessly to the mud. One more blow. One more and she could finish the smug bastard forever.
"I yield!"
The moment she heard the words, it was over. Iron jaws locked onto her just before she could bring down another blow. The training, the honour, and her duties as a member of the Alliance Mech Corps. The energy left her, fleeing as readily as it had appeared, leaving her drained and somewhat saddened by its parting. It was over too soon. It was always too soon...until it was too late, of course.
"Then exit your mech, Elf. It's mine by right of combat."
It took less time than she thought it might. She thought the man might stall for time, say he needed to commit the rituals of deactivation or some other lame excuse. But he appeared after only a few minutes. His machine was already lying on the ground, so hopping out of his cockpit proved little challenge. You wouldn't know he was over a millennium to look at him. Soft golden hair spilled down his head, tinted only occasionally by wisps of silver. His features remained smooth if firm, like a juvenile bird of prey. No scars blemished his otherwise perfect skin, featureless almost, in a way that disquieted other species. Even humans had freckles or blemishes, if not the patterns a normal person ought to have. He stared up at Drella's colossus with cold fury.
"Well?" he asked, unsheathing his tuadanya, his ritual blade and source of his authority, holding it out handle first, blade clutched tightly in his fist.
Drella savoured the sight of a kneeling Elven swordlord, even using her tacsight to take a picture for later enjoyment. But it would not do to keep him stewing for long. She let her mech drop to its knees and dip its head, allowing her to pop her own cockpit open. With practiced ease she fell the remaining metres, rolled, and came to her feet. Even if the Elf were standing, she'd be taller. Her dark green skin glistened with sweat, and her tank-top, shorts, and bandana were equally drenched. He recoiled in disgust, Elf noses being particularly sensitive, but kept the knife held up.
"You have something to tell me, can'thae?" she asked, lacing the profound insult with as much sarcastic grace as she could manage. Her Elvish was perfect, but in her childhood her Elven peers would often mock her for any minor fumble of tense or grammar. Now her hours of practice let her slide her own dagger even deeper.
"I yield my blade to you, Ur'uk," he said through gritted teeth, insisting on his language's pronunciation to the end.
"It's pronounced Orc," she corrected, yanking the blade from his clenched hand hard enough to draw blood, as tradition dictated. His skin was flawless no more. Forever he'd carry the scar in his palm, and anytime he might raise a weapon in anger he'd feel a slight tingle in his palm and be reminded that he'd surrendered to a better in single combat. One of the greatest disgraces someone of his venerable age might suffer. She made a show of casually sliding the weapon into her belt.
"So what happens now?" he asked.
Drella snorted. "Now? I figure out how I'm going to explain this to my superior officer...and how to get your mech back to base."
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