Piloting a Mecha?

Getting into the Interstellar Military Academy wasn't just about showing up—you HAH to prove your mental power was up to snuff.

With the Empire and the Alliance staring each other down and the whole galaxy feeling like everyone needed to be a soldier, pretty much every kid got their mental power sparked and checked at some point.

But actually making the cut to be an Academy cadet—or even better, a mecha pilot? That was a whole different story. Only a few pulled it off, even with stars stretching out forever.

It all kicked off two hundred years ago when mecha tech hit the scene.

Turns out, driving those giant machines wasn't just about guts—you needed mental power to match. The sharper your mind, the tighter you could sync with them.

To even climb into a cockpit, you had to hit at least a Class-B rating. Basic mechas needed an A, and the top dogs? Those were reserved for pilots with Class-S or better—mental power through the roof.

Fifty years ago, the Empire turned it into a big deal: every sixteen-year-old got dragged in for mental power testing.

Most kids ended up with a C or D—decent, but nothing to brag about. B-grade was the minimum to get into any Academy program that wasn't mecha-related.

Want a shot at the mecha division? You'd better bring an A or higher.

The original Lena never got her turn. Back at sixteen, she was stuck out in Starhold Outpost, barely getting by on her own.

She was a scrawny, sickly kid—not exactly the type anyone bothered hauling in for a test. The staff just shrugged and let her be.

No one figured a skinny orphan girl had much to offer anyway.

History showed the big mental power scores usually went to people with strong bodies and a knack for shining bright.

Sure, tons of tough, solid folks only hit D or C, but the Academy didn't care. Mechas ruled the galaxy's battlefields, and if you couldn't sync up, you were out—no matter how tough you were otherwise.

Still, Lena had to get her mental power checked and fired up, pronto.

Draven wasn't thrilled about it. His mom dumped the job on him, and he was already done with the whole thing.

Muttering about Lena being some untested wild card, he called a friend to snag a testing rig and dragged it home.

"She's probably a C or D," he grumbled to himself. "Shoving her into Gungnir's gonna be a pain."

He tossed the machine at Irish and bolted to his study to drown in work.

Once it was set up, the rig looked like a slick phone booth—shiny silver with a faint glow, plus a see-through panel that might've been glass or something cooler.

Irish waved the service bots out and gave Lena a quick nod. "You're up, Miss Lena."

Lena didn't mess around. She grabbed the handle, stepped in, and let the door slide shut behind her.

The second it clicked, everything went dark. A smooth, robotic voice piped up in her ears: "Mental power activation and testing started—"

Then it hit her. Pressure slammed in from everywhere, squeezing her body until she could hardly catch a breath.

Inside her head, it was like invisible hands were tearing her apart. A crazy, roaring wind ripped through her mind, wild and nonstop.

Pictures started flashing.

She saw burned-up ground from some apocalypse nightmare stretching out in front of her.

Screams of people getting eaten by Mutant Beasts bounced around, the air heavy with death and hopelessness. The apocalypse played out in her brain, one brutal scene after another.

There she was, standing on a wrecked street, gripping a longsword. Her "Enforcer" uniform was ripped up but still hanging on.

Not far off, a small Mutant Beast was sneaking toward a little girl bawling her eyes out. The kid reached for her "mom," but the woman just stood there, blank and cold.

Lena didn't hesitate. She raised her left hand, popping off four shots from her pistol to stop the beast in its tracks.

She ran closer, unloading the rest of the clip.

When the gun clicked empty, she stepped between the girl and the thing. Her right hand gripped the sword, ready to swing—but then the girl's "mother" darted in and snatched it right out of her hand.

The little girl screamed her head off.

With the longsword gone, the Mutant Beast pounced, its spiky edges stabbing right through Lena's body.

Acid dripped from it, burning her skin, but she didn't even blink. She was used to pain like that.

Clenching her jaw, she pulled a dagger from her belt and jammed it into the beast's skull, hitting its soft spot. It let out a piercing screech, flailed for a second, then dropped dead.

No second thoughts. Lena flicked her wrist and chucked the dagger at the girl's "mother"—that infected freak who'd nabbed her sword. The blade nailed it to the dirt.

To the kid, that rotting mess still looked like her mom, the one person she could lean on.

Infected humans had a dirty trick: they could mess with your head, making the people closest to you see them as normal.

But Lena saw through it. To her, they were walking corpses—gross, empty shells with nothing human left.

"Don't kill my mom!" The girl lunged for Lena's leg, but Lena pushed her off with a quick nudge—not mean, just firm. She yanked her longsword free and, with one smooth swing, lopped the thing's head off.

The girl behind her went nuts, her voice breaking as she yelled, "You cold-blooded Enforcer jerks! Murdering people like it's nothing—you're gonna rot in hell!"

Lena had heard it all before. Enforcers were the only ones tough enough to take on Mutant Beasts. Every day, they'd leave the base, roam the wastes, and drag back whatever supplies they could find.

Trouble was, some of that stuff came back dirty—loaded with infection. One bite or brush, and you'd turn into one of those things. It wasn't anyone's fault; it just happened.

In a messed-up way, Enforcers were the ones creating the infected. They were out there trying to save folks, but it backfired—more monsters every time.

And the infected? They sent out some kind of beacon that pulled in Mutant Beasts like a dinner bell. That's why they had to be put down, no questions asked.

Back at base, only Enforcers got the okay to kill. Of course, the families of the infected hated their guts for it.

The girl's shouting rolled off Lena like background noise—she'd tuned out that kind of hate ages ago.

She reached for her radio out of habit, but her hand came up empty. No gear, no comms.

Then the scene twisted. Everything folded up and went black. A tiny glowing dot popped up in her head, turning into a dragon flying through space, then into a huge mecha—shiny and white like the moon.

It dropped to one knee and reached out a hand, like a knight swearing loyalty to her.

The second she touched it, the whole thing blinked out. Her eyes shot open, and she was back in the testing pod.

It was all just a vision from the mental power test.

Sweat dripped down her face, her body shaking like she'd just sprinted through a horror show.

That apocalypse felt way too real. The mecha? Too wild to wrap her head around. Coming back to reality hit her hard, and for a minute, she wasn't sure where she fit.

When the trembling finally chilled out, Lena kicked the pod door open.

She was itching to know her score, but Irish was glued to the opticomputer, her face all scrunched up like something major was going down.

Lena stayed quiet, letting her do her thing.

By the time Irish looked up, Lena was already fiddling with the pod's outer shell—old scavenger instincts kicking in.

"Miss Lena…" Irish's voice came out heavy, her look even heavier.

Lena stopped, thinking she'd screwed up the machine. She leaned in to peek, but Irish just pinged a report over instead.

"The rig tested you twice," Irish said, frowning. "First go? Nothing. Total blank. Second time…" She stopped, like she couldn't buy it herself. "An SS."

Class-SS. That wasn't even a thing they'd heard of.

The scale of this whole system maxed out at S, with S+ and S- tacked on later.

A blank first run? The machine probably freaked out trying to read her. Double-S was off the charts—way beyond anything the galaxy had ever seen.

Lena's brain jumped back to that giant mecha in her vision. She pressed her lips together.

A score like that wasn't exactly a win—not with her rickety body still holding her back.

If the military got a whiff of this, they'd be all over her. One wrong move, one clue she wasn't normal, and she'd end up a guinea pig—cut open for science in this fancy new world.

Lena was a survivor from a wrecked world, someone who'd already slipped through death's fingers once.

Even if she dodged the science freaks in white coats, an Class-SS mental power wasn't exactly a free pass.

People love a genius—until that genius won't toe the line. Then you're just trouble.

And Lena? She didn't bend for anybody.

"I hacked the military's mental power database the second your score popped up," Irish said, her voice cool and solid. "Wiped your report before it could hit their system."

"You hacked the military?" Lena's jaw dropped a little. She'd figured Irish was Aldric's ace assistant, but this was wild. The woman was a freaking multitool.

Irish just looked at her, her face a jumble of something Lena couldn't quite read.

"You gonna tell Admiral Cross?" Lena asked, keeping it light, testing her.

Irish didn't say a word. The quiet said it all.

Lena's brain kicked into overdrive. "Okay, you could've buried this whole thing, done your hack, and run straight to Cross without me ever catching on. Saved yourself the trouble. But you didn't—you told me. So we've got some wiggle room here to decide if this stays between us or goes to someone else."

She was rolling the dice. Irish's next step was a total mystery. If Aldric got a whiff of this, Lena was toast—trapped with no moves left.

For a hot second, she thought about taking Irish out. One fast hit, problem gone.

But she nixed that idea quick.

If Irish hadn't jumped in, the military would already be busting down her door. Plus, ditching a body? Way too much work.

There had to be a smoother way.

Irish stood there, sizing up the scrawny girl in front of her. Her right pinky twitched—just a little tic, but Lena locked onto it.

That hint of uncertainty was her in.

Truth was, Irish didn't want to rat her out to Aldric. She knew the guy too well.

If he found out, Lena would be stuck at Cross Residence—not a guest, more like a caged bird.

But feeling sorry for some weak kid she'd only known a few days? That wasn't enough to shake her.

No, it ran deeper.

Over the years, Irish had watched Admiral Cross turn into someone she barely recognized.

The stuff he pulled, the orders she carried out—it didn't match the ideals she'd signed up for.

Loyalty started feeling like a chokehold. 'Is sticking with Aldric still worth it? Are my hands even clean anymore?'

"I don't know how you pulled off SS result," Irish said, finally breaking the silence, "but I know what happens if this gets out. If shutting up keeps someone from getting screwed over, then my lips are sealed."

The words landed, and she felt lighter—like a weight she didn't even know she was carrying had dropped.

Selling out Aldric should've messed her up, but for once, she felt okay—like she'd dodged a choice she'd regret.

"When I climb high enough," Lena said, locking eyes with her, "I'll make it up to you. Whatever I can do, I'll do it."

It was a promise with no backing—just a broke kid's IOU. But Irish's reaction told Lena a lot. She wasn't just some drone in Cross's crew. She had a mind of her own, a conscience—little cracks in that loyal soldier shell.

"Looking forward to it," Irish said with a half-smirk. She knew Lena was throwing her a long shot

Changing the game like that? You'd need serious juice—Empire Admiral-level, maybe more.

Lena, with her wobbly body, pulling that off? Even getting into the Academy was a stretch, let alone climbing the ranks.

Still, SS wasn't a glitch. Irish had seen the numbers herself.

Maybe the kid had a shot at surprising her, she thought, just maybe.

That was years away, though—if it even happened.

Whatever came next, Irish didn't feel bad about this. Not right now.