"So I'm supposed to fly you? How the fuck do I do that?"

The confused pilot, in his 20s, sat on a crate, opposite the A-10 to which he had been assigned. This particular plane was notorious for going through pilots faster than any other due to 'unexplained mechanical faults' and risky aerial maneuvers.

"Y'see this?" It turned to its left slightly, showing the mechanical seams on her back, still looking at him, with that predator's grin on its face.

"I can make these split apart. You climb in...and then you can take me for  a spin, yeah?"

The pilot scratched at his hairline. "There's nowhere near enough room for anyone in there," he stated flatly, pointing at its fuel tanks.

The A-10's grin quickly switched into an irritated frown, and it leaned forwards, jabbing a finger at the pilot causing him to jump, just a little.

"Don't be a dumbshit, okay? They briefed you properly, right?"

The pilot looked on blankly.

"...Right? Ah, fuck." The A-10 maintained the frown, but leaned back and shrugged.

"I'm hollow. Your arms and legs fit into mine, and you see out of...this." It crossed its legs again, leaning forwards and tapping the opaque cockpit. To the pilot, it looked more like a helmet.

"Neural connections let me know what you want to do. No joysticks. At least not in that cockpit." It gave him a patronizing glance.

Only to see a look of great, deep thought on the man's face.

"What's wrong?" It hissed in a sultry, earthy tone, leaning forwards. "Scared?"

"Those aren't fuel tanks at all."

It frowned again, but this time, more in utter confusion than anything else.

"I...what?"

"Those." The pilot poked the pliant synthmetal 'fuel tank'. The A-10 jerked backwards.

"Don't do that! They're...er, volatile!"

The pilot crossed his arms. "They're breasts, aren't they."

"N-no..."

"You're a GIRL plane, aren't you?"

The A-10 went through several facial expressions, from 'confused', to 'incredulous', to 'disbelieving', to 'incredibly angry'.

"NO SHIT. NO...SHIT." The A-10 yelled at him, jumping up and shoving him backwards over the crate. "MOTHERFUCKING SHERLOCK EINSTEIN, ARE YOU? Oh my God, how long did it take for you to figure that out?" it yelled, before walking away, head in its hands, muttering, "I've been paired with an idiot...an idiot..." over and over again, until it found the hangar wall, which it started to gently bang its cockpit against. "Of all the pilots...I've had aces, masters of their craft, and now this dipshi-" It froze as it felt a gentle hand run down its back seam, unsealing it with a hydraulic 'hsss'.

"W-what are you-"

"Shh. No words. Only flying now."

After about fifteen seconds of absolutely nothing happening, the A-10 turned around irritably, to see the pilot staring into its back, with the confused expression on his face again.

"Are you fucking teasing me? I-"

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

The pilot reached inside it, poking the object in question, which caused the A-10 to shudder violently and collapse against the wall. "Th...t-that's the fuel intake, dumbass."

"That doesn't look like a fuel intake."

"JUST G-GET THE FUCK IN."





"Can you tell me how the FUCK that happened?" The general shouted over the table, sending the bespectacled techie another half-foot back out of spittle range.

"Er, it might have been paperwork. Or, um, maybe it w-"

"DON'T GIVE ME MAYBES, CARLYLE."

"R-right you are, Sir, the facts are I don't exactly know why he was assigned to her," the techie continued, nervously fidgeting. "B-but another fact is that no matter how you look at it, it makes sense for him to...er...fill her needs."

"It's an IT, not a SHE. When you start assigning gender to artificial intelligence-even if they decide to assign it to themselves, and force people to give them 'upgrades'-it goes WRONG. Every FUCKING time, haven't you seen the reports?" The general continued yelling, gently watering his desk, the papers on it, and the carpet. "IT is an IT until I say OTHERWISE."

"W-well, putting that aside, he seems to have a higher psych rate with her than any of the previous pilots. I-it could have been something to do with the fact they were all, er, female."

This hit a sore spot with the general-this plane was a killer. It was no secret, on this particular base-its 'kill tally', unofficial of course, rested at ten. It would seem to go fine at first, a few successful test flights after full integration...then one day it would return to base and ask someone to drag the comatose, engine oil-soaked pilot out of it. They were sometimes bruised, sometimes scans showed neural degeneration and brain damage, other times it couldn't be explained. The last one that was 'offered to the beast', as the engineers called it, was completely purple, it was so covered in bruises. The only reasons the A-10 hadn't been decomissioned were the potential advantage it could give, come wartime, and that they were worried about what it would do should it find out about the plan.

The only reason pilots wanted to even bother with it was one of three things-the firepower it presented, the prestiege one would gain from being the one to tame it, or because they were ordered to, like the first few. The current pilot, however, was a mistake. He was supposed to be a pencil-pusher.

"What's that got to do with it, huh? Rather than spout statistics, how about you FIX the problem?"

The techie cringed again. "I, ah, I'm on it, Sir. You can trust me."



The pilot pointed the beretta handgun at the A-10, which continued giving him an disinterested frown. Due to the noticable lack of lips, it always seemed as if it was grinning or frowning.

"Please, don't make me do this."

"It's what I want. Hurry the fuck up and get over with it."

The pilot moved his aim from its general chest area to its head, calmly and smoothly tightening his finger on the trigger. "Well, okay."

"Wait, n-"

The handgun fired, the 9x19 parabellum round slamming into its head at around 380 metres per second, sending it jerking back and bouncing off the wall of the hangar with a hollow 'clunk'. It staggered and caught itself on the wall as the pilot put the gun's safety back on.

"You STUPID MOTHERFUCKER. HAVE YOU NEVER FIRED A GUN BEFORE? EVER?" Its head flicked back forward, as the gunshot's echo bounced around the hangar. "DON'T FUCKING AIM FOR THE HEAD, AIM FOR CENTRE, OF, MASS. DID YOU WANT TO DAMAGE MY SENSORS YOU DUMB SHIT?"

The pilot opened his mouth before being interrupted again.

"I SAID, AIM FOR HERE. CHEST LEVEL. God." The A-10 snatched the gun out of the pilot's hands and leaned into his face, frowning.

"I just thought..."

"YOU THOUGHT WRONG. WROOOOONG. Not that it matters," the A-10 said, crossing its arms triumphantly. "I'm rated virtually immune to small arms fire, and stands a good chance of igoring rifles, too."

The pilot suddenly leaned forwards, almost touching noses with the A-10, who held its ground.

"A-10, I...I think I dented you."

"You WHAT?"

The pilot, surprisingly quickly, grabbed the A-10's nose, rubbing at the little scratch just above its right eye. It was too surprised to do anything other than blink and stammer for a few seconds.

"...W-what are you doing?"

"Yeah, I scratched your paint. Here."

"S-stop that." Even though it asked, the A-10 made no move to escape. "It..."

"Do you know your paint number? Shit, I'm going to get into so much trouble for this." The pilot turned its head up to the light, in order to see the damage. The A-10's left turbine whined softly as the pilot continued checking it for damage.

"You're alright though, right?"

The A-10 didn't answer until the pilot stopped rubbing the scratch.

"Uhn? Oh, uh...yeah, I'm okay..."

The pilot released his hold on the A-10's head, rubbing at his eyes and walking towards and out the door, leaving it whirring and leaning forwards slightly, one hand half-raised, the other limp by its side, a vacant look on its face. "I'm going to have to sneak in and take some. What am I going to put on the form? 'Paint number X, one pot, due to shooting my plane in the forehead with its own gun. Oh yeah, it totally made me do it.' Argh."

He didn't notice the man hiding behind the door, wearing large corrective lenses. He didn't notice the man look into the door he left through. And the A-10, touching its head where the pilot held it, didn't realize it was being watched.



The A-10's train of thought was siddenly cut off as the door clicked closed, the lights clanging on as the bespectacled man walked down the length of the hangar, holding a remote in his hand. "Nice to see you again, A-10."

A-10 squinted at the intruder, turning to face him, arms crossed. "The fuck are you? The fuck is that?"

"Oh, we've met before. You just don't remember it."

A-10's reply of "Wha-" was cut off as the man pressed a button on the remote, causing it to suddenly spasm, holding its head, screaming, for a few seconds before suddenly going limp and unresponsive. The man walks up to the A-10, pulling on latex doctor's gloves before gently tilting its head up and looking into its empty eyes.

He let the head drop and ran a hand down its chassis, tilting the left turbine towards him and peering inside, before moving on to its head. He pried its mouth open, looking inside, before running a tender hand over, then reaching between the legitimately sharp teeth and examining its Avenger cannon, gently running a hand down the top. "One day we will be together, my sweet...and I won't let anyone harm you until then, none of these incompetent pilots and least of all a desk clerk."

He ran his hands down the seam in the back, but it didn't open-a side effect to the 'maintenance' mode his specialized PDA put it in. Originally intended to dull any pain the A-10 would experience if it needed to be repaired after heavy battle damage, it was proven completely useless once it expressed an almost masochistic streak, once claiming that, "I've fucked gravity and made Newton my bitch, pain is fucking nothing." Carlyle was one of the only people who remembered this function.

He gently set the A-10 down near the wall, running a hand over its cockpit-he knew it loved that, even though it wouldn't remember any of this, nor before-and stood up, walking away.

"I'll see to that myself," the techie muttered to himself.





A-10 was woken by happy whistling and the sound of metal being scraped across concrete. The pilot was in the process of hauling a sturdy-looking metal bed through the hangar, to join the lamp, table, chairs, and two litre pot of paint in the corner. The A-10, after about ten minutes of just watching him slowly, laboriously pushing the bed across the hanger, stood up, and walked over. The pilot stopped pushing the bed and stretched his back.

"G'mornin', A-10."

"What the fuck are you doing," A-10 rasped drowsily. "What are you doing in my hangar. Why are you ...what is all this stuff? Why so early?"

The pilot laughed and went back to grating the bed across the floor. "I'm moving in."

A-10 put its hand on the end of the bed, stopping it flat. A-10 was incredibly strong, despite its light frame. "No you're not."

"Why not?"

"Because this is MY space. I like my privacy. You do not get to live in my private space and put your human fat everywhere."

The pilot tilted his head back and forth before attempting to shift the bed again. "Well, I'm going to spend most of my time inside you, once training is over. I don't really see the difference."

A-10 was struck silent for all of two seconds, before it released the bed, causing the pilot to slide forwards at a rapid pace, almost falling on his face.

"Fine. Sure. No respect eh? First you try to shoot out my fuckin' eyes, now you're moving into my fuckin' hangar and probably attract mice and shit with all your human food."

"Oh! Yeah, that's right..." The pilot dropped the bed and hurried past A-10, brushing against its shoulder. The pot of paint was retrieved, along with a dainty paintbrush, one that looked like it had seen much use in its time. "Sit down."

A-10 was about to protest, before the pilot gently pushed her on to the bed and kneeled down before her.

"W-wait, what are you going to do o-" A-10 was cut off, again, as he slowly reached up to its cheek, and started rubbing the side of its head with a sheet of soft-grain sandpaper. "Ow geez fuck what are you doing a-ah stop fuck."

"Oh, good, you regenerated the dent. Yeah, I want to get a smooth finish. Nothing's uglier than an uneven coat of paint." The pilot held the A-10's head in place as he gently rubbed the flecks of paint away from the 'wound'. The A-10 frowned mightily, but held still and fiddled with one of its turbines.

"Y-you know, one of the engineers should be doing this..."

"I'm your pilot, I should take care of you. Having other people to do things for you isn't an excuse to avoid doing it yourself. Besides, I like painting. I used to paint aeroplane models as a kid. Still do, when I get the chance."

The pilot dipped the brush in the pot, and started to paint on the A-10s face.

"A-ah...are you sure you have the r-right colour? I...I never told you my paint code."

"Nah, I've got it." He held the paint pot's lid up in front of her face. The A-10 held its own hand up beside the lid, turning it over a few times and blinking as it realized that the shades of grey were exactly the same. It jumped a little when he took the hand and placed it back on her lap.

"I don't want you getting paint over your camo pattern, it'll ruin it." He continued lightly applying the paint to her face as the A-10 became more quiet and even more fidgety.

 After a few minutes of painting, the pilot's tongue sticking out of his mouth in silent concentration, the A-10 suddenly grabbed the paintbrush, tossing it across the hangar and forcing the pilot down onto his bed with an "urk". The A-10 pressed down on the pilot, one hand on his shoulder and the other roughly attempting to un-zip his button up shirt.

"Uh...what are you trying to do?"

A-10 jerked downwards, eye-to-eye-shaped-sensor-array with the pilot. "You're...ah...my pilot, dumbass. I've decided that you're a keeper, you know? We should get to...know each other a little more intimately, right?" The A-10 grined at him, with a feral, manic grin plastered across its nosecone.

"Absolutely not."

The A-10 jerked to a halt.

"WHAT."

"We've got to let that dry first, or it'll smudge all over your nice ABU."

"OH MY GOD, SCREW THE PAINT. THAT CAN COME LATER." The A-10 grew frustrated with the complex mechanics of the button, preferring to just tear the shirt off him in a display of strength. "YOU COME SOONER."

The pilot seemed to approach it in a vaguely logical manner, which was commendable considering that there was a highly advanced weapon of mass destruction with very large breasts pressing into his chest and currently attempting to sunder his pants in the same manner as his poor shirt.

"I'm your pilot, though. Shouldn't I take the lead?"

A-10 was stunned, momentarily freezing up-enough time for the pilot to roll it over, himself on top now. The bed let out a tortured noise as its poor, aged frame took another hit. He climbed off the bed, tracing one finger up the A-10's neck, before bolting for the hangar door.

"OH NO YOU FUCKING DO NOT GET BACK HERE," the A-10 commented, leaping up and engaging its turbines, rocketing towards the man's back, as he closed the hangar's door. "Oh," it commented, before doing almost a backflip in midair, engaging its turbines on full speed, bringing itself to a stop directly in front of the visibly worried man. The momentary silence revealed a dripping noise, which the pilot noticed as an oil leak, in between the two main turbines.

"You'd best lock that, pilot. I don't want to be disturbed." It grabbed him and forced him against the wall, pulling down his pants.

The pilot sighed and pointed to its face. "The paint's already smudged..."

"Oh, shut up about the paint," the A-10 replied, pulling his pants down and pulling him into an embrace, warm fleshy arms wrapped around its back while its cool arms wrapped around his neck and pulled his lips to meet hers.

The pilot tasted a metallic, clean tang with a hint of gunpowder as he hoised the A-10 into his arms and carried it back to the bed. The A-10 closed its own eyes and tasted the strange combination of chemicals that humans used as intake lubricant. It decided that it was not unpleasant.

It disengaged from the kiss, smiling-not coyly grinning for once, warmly smiling-at the pilot. "I'd...do you have anything to plug that leak?"

It was the pilot's turn to grin. "You talk too much."

He ran his hands up the back of its neck, pushing himself into the machine's auxilliary exhaust. The A-10 moaned, eyes closed, its turbines intermittently clacking against their housings. "A-ah...it's...it's deeper, pilot."

The pilot stroked his hand over her eye, slowly adjusting the 'plug' back out, then thrusting it in with a wet 'shlock'. The A-10's landing wheels whirred in surprise, before it engaged the emergency brakes. "A-ah! It's...it's getting bigger?" The A-10 opened its eyes in surprise, desperately clutching the pilot to it. "HARDER. NOW."

The pilot complied, thrusting harder...then teasingly pulling it back out, slowly. "I...have to get it aligned...haah."

"FFFFFFFFFFFFFUCKING TEAAAAAAAASE," the A-10 hoarsely shouted as he jammed it back in, the synth-metal tubing spasming, almost pulling on his plug. He complied, pushing it in and out in an almost hydraulic fashion, as the A-10 moaned.

"Hng...I'm going to...come," the pilot stated, matter of factly. The A-10's eyes were wide and glazed over in ecstacy, her mouth open, panting.
"I...ah....ahhha...I'm going to..."

Both came at the same time, the pilot grunting and holding the A-10 close. The A-10 tilted its head back, gasped, and said "BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT," filling the air with around three hundred depeleted uranium shells in the space of four seconds, punching a new skylight into the hangar. The loud climax echoed around the hangar slowly fading, until the only sounds left are of the gasping pilot and the A-10, going, "Oh God. Oh God I'm so sorry I didn't think I mean I've never-"

The A-10 slowly came to the realization that the pilot was in some sort of post-maintenance stupor, spreadeagle acrost its chest, head firmly planted in between its auxilliary fuel containers. It looked up and out the new skylight, momentarily admiring its shot placement, then the cloudy night sky beyond. No doubt someone had heard the 'release', but the door was locked, and people knew better than to intrude on the A-10's privacy. It lay there on the bed and placed a hand on the back of the pilot's head, sighing contendedly. What made this one different to all the others? How could he be so forceful while treating it as if it was merely a tool to be taken care of, treating it with more care than most human husbands treated wives? The A-10 licked its 'lips', the flexible gatling cannon clinking quietly off the points. It could get used to this, it thought, as it drifted off to sleep.


The two soldiers, currently stationed outside the general's quarters, were bored. The general was renowned for being somewhat paranoid. The ever-increasing threat of war hang over everyone's heads, and no-one more so than he; trained in the best military academy the country had, yet never actually seeing live warfare himself.

"Got any smokes?" The first guard-a young-looking man with messy blonde hair and glasses asked.

The second, a much taller man with a bushy red beard and hair, replied: "Yeah, but the Big G'll get pissed if we smoke outside his quarters."

"Oh, yeah, you're right." Both stood in silence for the next few minutes awkwardly watching the night sky and nothing much in particular, before he spoke up again.

"Did you hear what that A-10 did?"

"Everyone did, son, that thing's got a bloody Avenger cannon."

The other one looked around, checking for eavesdroppers, before edging closer to the second bearded man.

"Yeah, but...those were LIVE ROUNDS, not just blanks. It was LOADED on the base."

"So?"

"So, that's against regulations. I bet the general's going to rip it a new one."

"HA! Big G standing up to that thing? Don't you know he has an entire division, personally funded may I add, devoted entirely to keeping those planes under watch?"

The younger blinked.

"At least HALF of them are supposed to be keeping an eye on that A-10." Redbeard scoffed. "Military intelligence my ass."

"You don't mean Carlyle and that other guy, do you? That...that's hardly a division, that's just two guys. Come on, man."

Redbeard hugged and puffed for a few moments before pointing at the younger man. "Look, you asked a question, and I gave you the answer."

"Sure you did, Mr. Tinfoil Hat," the younger crowed.

Yeah, they were pretty bored.


The requisitions depot attendant was having the time of his life, though.

"Okay so...just...explain that to me again."

The pilot, dressed in an oil-stained bedsheet toga, sighed. "I need a new uniform. And a replacement for my bed."

"No, no, go over the 'why' bit. I want to hear it one more time."

"Damn it, I wrote it on the form."

"Please?"

"Fine," the pilot sighed, adjusting the toga's shoulder. "Okay, so, after I brought my desk into the hangar, the zuchhini basket-"

The no doubt enthralling story was interrupted by another man reaching past the pilot, handing the requisitions officer a form. "I'd, er, like to get some paint. Black and white."

The techie and the pilot had never actually met face to face, so the latter did not recognize the former. The techie, however, had read all the reports available on the pilot.

The depot attendant read the form, kicking his beaten up swivel chair away from the desk and down one corridor, before reaching out, snagging the corner of one shelf, and re-directing him down another. "Paint...paint..."

The clattering chair came to a halt. "Hey, there's none left. It's gone. Daaaamn, who'd steal two whole pots of paint?"

"Yes, who?" The techie pushed his corrective glasses up his nose, gausing the light to momentarily reflect off them.

The pilot put on his best poker-face, which was actually quite good, as he enjoyed playing poker.

"I-I'm pretty sure that theft could mean reassignment, demotion, pay cuts..." the techie continued.

"Oh, come off it, Carlyle," the depot attendant said, scooting past the window on his chair again. "Nobody gives two fucks about paint. Maybe not even one."

The techie grumbled to himself, quietly, as the depot attendant slid past again, tossing a bundle of clothes and, after another pass, some aviators at the pilot. "Thanks. I'll bring you something next time I come in, okay?"

"Ha! Sure thing, my man. Enjoy the rest of your night," the depot attendant replied, as the pilot walked out, like a stately Roman senator, if their robes were stained with slightly sweet-smelling oil.

The techie frowned and stayed in the depot tent for a few more moments, before grinding his teeth together and heading for the general's cabin.



The A-10 sat in the middle of the hangar on a small stool, frowning, as the pilot (now properly clothed) scrubbed its back with strong cleaning fluid.

"When was the last time you were cleaned, A-10?"

The A-10 was silent for a few seconds before mumbling out a dissatisfied, grumpy answer.

"What?"

"About ghrngrmngo."

The pilot leaned around the plane and looked it in its eye.

"About a month ago, okay?"

The pilot rubbed the cloth over its lower 'back', carefully wiping down its turbines. "Wow. Your manual said that you should get cleaned way more often."

The A-10 whipped around, suddenly nose-to-nose with its pilot. "I don't make a habit of rolling around in grime, dumbass." It turned around again, crossing its arms and unconsciously leaning into the pilot's gentle scrubbing. "Well, it's true. I just don't seem to get as dirty as other planes," it stated, in a slightly superior fashion.

The pilot, by way of reply, simply lifted out one of its legs in front of it, placed it on his knee to keep it straight, and re-applied more cleaning solution to the cloth.

"B-be careful with my landing wheels."

THe pilot slowly ran the cloth down its 'leg', inch by inch, cleaning the reverse side of the knee joint and working his way slowly around to the front. "So, when do I get to take you for a ride?"

"You alre-oh. Uh..." The A-10 shook itself out of its bliss semi-coma and frowned at him. "The hell happened to 'oh, a pilot's gotta take the lead', huh?"

The pilot laughed and set the leg down carefully, wiping up the inside and frowning at the oil stains on the rag. "I'll need a new cloth. You're so dirty."

The A-10 launched forward, almost tipping the stool over in an attempt to get into the pilot's face. "WHADDAYA MEAN BY THAT, JERKOFF?"

The pilot just grinned before reversing the cloth and wiping it across its underbelly, eliciting a strained whirr from the plane. Remarkably, the A-10 managed to bend almost double to keep staring at the man's face-synthmetal was extremely flexible.

After a few more seconds of the A-10 staring and the pilot remaining innocent, the A-10 realized that he was joking. Joking? The A-10 lurched back upright and crossed its arms. Every other pilot had tried to 'prove' themselves. Either by showing off, shoving awards in its face, or trying to physically dominate it. All methods failed, mostly due to the A-10 lacking the fucks to give. But this man...he didn't try to prove anything. His manner-acting as if he owned it already-something about it made the A-10 go on the defensive far more than it ever had before. It was unsettling the plane. Unfortunately, before any more thought could be given on the issue, the pilot screwed the cloth into its auxilliary pressure release vent.

The A-10 lurched backwards, taken off guard, kicking the stool out from underneath it and clunking onto the floor. The pilot didn't seem to notice, just moving the stool out of the way and keeping on cleaning while the A-10 scrabbled for his wrists, emitting worless cries of protest and arousal.

The pilot fended off the frantic A-10's arms with one hand, with his best 'disinterested' face on.

It was quite good; he enjoyed playing poker.

"So dirty. I might have leave you here and go get some stronger cleaning fluid..."

"Auwgffuhnnhhffffffuuuaaaarghnnnngh," the A-10 replied, twisting around on the cement floor.

The pilot levered the A-10's legs apart with his knees and bent down to examine the slit. While theoretically used to prevent ruptures due to overpressurized oil-or leakages from another part of the system entering the oil reserviour and overflowing it-he could see that it had been modified, somewhat.

"Oh, this doesn't look like a pressure release vent at all..."

"YOU KNOW THIS. YOU KNEW THIS. DID YOU SERIOUSLFFFFFNNNNNNNAGH," the A-10 replied in protest, managing to shove the pilot's knee from between its own and thus clenching down on the cleaning rag. The pilot just grinned and worked it deeper, other hand on its stomach. The pilot tenderly wiped down the vent's walls, ignoring its cries of protest, the soft cloth eventually turning them into cries of encouragement, the plane grasping his free hand.

"Aaaaaungyou'vedonethisbefooooooorehaveyousonofabiiiitch," the A-10 said, still writhing and frowning and panting, mouth slightly open, staring at him with fiery eyes.

The pilot then found the vent nozzle itself.

"NAUGHFUCK."

"Shhh. I clean now." The pilot ran the soft cloth around the nozzle, elicitng another cry from the plane, before slowly, teasingly, withdrawing the cloth. He didn't get far before the A-10 roughly forced it back in.

"NO STOPPING. NO. BAD PILOT."

"I have to put more fluid on the cloth or I'll just be wiping grime into your chassis, A-10. Let my hand go."

It was said in such a matter of fact, forceful manner that the A-10, surprised, did so. "GRIME? I'M NHGAAAAAARGH."

The A-10 was cut off by the pilot quickly inserting the cloth again, turning it around and around inside the vent, two fingers working it into the groove, around the walls, around the nozzle. It didn't take long for the A-10 to lose control, throw its head back, and "HKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKTGH," barrel rapidly spinning, spooled up to at least eighty revs per second, but thankfully not firing any shells this time. Agonizingly, the pilot only wiped deeper, faster, and harder, until the quivering plane went limp.

"There, now that any more discharges won't dirty it up any more, I can move on to your main chassis."

"I'm....I'm going to...ah...kill you. D-don't stop."

The pilot poured some of the cleaning solution over the A-10's chest and stomach, the clear fluid running off it and onto the floor. It gasped from the sudden sensation, then moaned and fell to muttering in satisfaction as the pilot slowly and tenderly cleaned its stomache and auxilliary fuel tanks. The care with which he moved the cloth around the curvy mounds made the A-10 even more floppy, the repeditive stroaking eventually making the A-10 fall into a half-asleep relaxed coma. The A-10's pilot smiled, and lifted the limp plane up, walking over to and depositing it in its 'sleeping corner', a carefully stacked pile of wooden crates. He resolved to borrow, beg, or steal a bed for ir at some point in the future, even though he knew it didn't care what it slept on. He then stood up, stretched his back, and carefully placed the cloth over the plane's eye sensors before heading over to his own military cot in an attempt to catch some sleep that night.




The next morning's sunrise also brought the pilot an unpleasant suprise. He sat on the end of his bed, reading the notice. At the top read, 'TRANSFER NOTICE'. The rest was predictable legal jargon, basically saying that he was getting ejected the fuck out and sent to some Australian hole in the ground base. The pilot thought it strange-being transferred out this quickly usually happened to people that had some special skill that was needed elsewhere. Engineers, specialists...but not pilots, you could get them from anywhere. He rubbed his hand through his hair and decided that there was definitely something up, something wrong with this. He could always tell when a document was strange, wrong, off. Incorrect.

He stood up, casting a glance over to the dozing A-10, on its back, mouth open, frowning even in sleep. One of its hands was draped over its chest, the other barely touching the floor. He didn't intend to worry it with his problems, as he was capable of solving them entirely by himself.

He left the hangar, and walked towards the general's-the one who issued the order-building. He was out of sight when the technician walked into the hanger.

Carlyle closed the hangar's door, and angrily mashed the controller's 'maintenance' function, instantly sending the A-10 under, it merely spasming once, not even giving it a chance to scream.

The first thing he saw was the clean, reflective sheen of the A-10's synthmetal 'skin'. Carlyle was enraged-the only one that was permitted to clean her was HIMSELF. No other knew her like he did, and no other knew how to clean her properly. He hurried over and commenced his 'routine checkup'.

Of course, it was more of a 'feel-up' than anything else. Although he would not admit it to anyone, he was deeply in love with this aeroplane. Sadly, he was never able to be a pilot-poor eyesight and a crippling fear of heights kept him groundbound, removing any chance for him to fly her. So, he had been subtly altering the general's requests-only female pilots had been routed to this base and this plane. He also knew of this one plane's almost unique psychosis: it felt that it had a strong connection to the human female gender.

Carlyle's plot was intended to work thus: The lack of male companionship would force it to actively seek it out. Sadly, it struck up a friendly, working relationship with the first pilot it was assigned. He had to take...measures. The same measures-'technical faults' he arranged during his 'maintenance' visits-had killed all the others he had assigned her.

He tenderly stroked her cockpit, before rushing out of the hangar. He needed to see that autistic 'pilot' get chewed out by the general himself.


The A-10 didn't know about the techie's visits. The maintenance failsafe erased all memory shortly before and during its activation period, after all.

It didn't erase the memories of killing. Death. Their smiles, their scents, their screams, the feel of carrying a corpse-or a dying woman-inside it all the way back to base and being forced to put on a tough face to avoid being decomissioned. PTSD in planes was extremely uncommon, but should they be diagnosed with it, it was sent to the wreckers.

The first died from suffocation. Air intakes weren't working. She screamed until her air ran out, then just made hoarse choking noises before finally passing out. They couldn't release her seals in time to save her. It wasn't the A-10's fault, of course, just the acting engineer's. He was fired.

The second died due to a 'weapons system malfunction'. That was legal jargon for 'hot Avenger casings were released inside the hull, rather than through the ejection port'. Mercifully, that one passed out from shock. The A-10 still remembered the smell of the burning flesh. The next engineer was fired as well, and a specialist brought on-site.

The third died on impact. The A-10 could survive a crash relatively easily, but it was always recommended that the pilot evacuate. Both turbines failing due to fuel line faults, causing the A-10 to hit the ground at about 100 km/h? That proved fatal. The blood and bone fragments took several days to fully clean out of its interior, and the pilot had screamed the entire way down.

It was after that she was labled a 'killer'. Murdering pilots for fun. It had to maintain that tough exterior for so long it became second nature to it; imposing, dangerous, seductive, predatory. Callous. Nothing was further from its mind than 'male companionship', at least not until this pilot showed up. Right now, temporarily, nothing was in its mind. Carlyle had made sure of that.



The A-10's pilot opened the door to the general's office, closing it behind him and taking the offered seat.

"Right, right, you're the pilot? One who's being transferred, Mr...?"

The pilot dropped the transfer notice on the desk.

"About that transferral, sir." The pilot looked directly into the general's eyes, carefully stating, "I implore you to reconsider. The cost it will take for me to go from here to..." The pilot glanced at the notice. "Alice Springs is quite high, for one. I don't think it's worth it."

"Do you think YOU know how to do MY job better than I do, pilot?" The general growled.

The pilot was unmoved. "Of course not, sir, but I would like an explanation as to why I'm being transferred so soon after reaching this base."

The general squinted at the pilot in surprise before regaining his composure. "You're a pilot, pilot. YOU go where I TELL you to go, 'sthat clear? Or do I have to discipline you for insubordination too?"

The pilot didn't exactly know what to say. He'd never experienced anyone so desperately unreasonable in his entire career, so he fell silent. The general leant back in his chair in triumph, and decided to rub it in.

"I'd have thought you'd enjoy the chance to escape from the killer, pilot."

"I'm sorry, sir, what?"

The general squinted again. "You know, the A-10. Murdering pilots for entertainment? Creative little thing, too. Third degree burns, depressurization, suffocation, blunt force, slowly bleeding to death. Only reason we keep it around is because eventually it'll prove useful."

The pilot's poker face shattered.

"What? Why?"

"HA! Ask it yourself if you're in a hurry to die."

"I think I will, sir. Permission to leave?"

"Granted. Get the fuck out of my office."

The pilot shakily stood and made his way out of the office, clutching the transfer notice in one hand. He didn't see the techie standing next to the door with a triumphant smirk on his face.


The A-10 awoke to the sound of the hangar door shutting, lazily rolling over and landing on its feet. The first thing it noticed was the look on its pilot's face-for the first time, he looked distressed. For some reason, this scared it.

It crossd its arms and frowned at him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he said, but the A-10 didn't believe him. He dropped some paperwork on his bed and stuck his hand in his pockets, evidently thinking about something.

The A-10 frowned harder and stared at the man. "Bullshit."

He looked up from the ground, into its face. "Why did you kill all those pilots?"

The A-10 blinked in surprise.

"You didn't know...?"

"Not until this morning."

The A-10 looked at him with a mixture of astonishment and confusion, walking over to the man, staring at him before roughly shoving him onto the cot, causing it to make a creaky protest. "You want to know WHY?"

The pilot seemed unmoved. "Yeah."

The A-10 planted a foot on his chest, causing the bed to creak some more. It stared at him with wild eyes, a predatory grin stretched across its nosecone.

"BECAUSE I ENJOYED IT, YOU FUCK," The A-10 yelled into his face.

"The sounds their bones made when they shattered, the struggles when they start drowning in my fuel, the last wheeze before they suffocate! It's MUSIC," it hissed into his face.

The pilot looked back, brow wrinkled, before calmly stating, "Bullshit."

The A-10 shoved its foot down, leading to the second bed fatality that week, the wood snapping and the pilot's back impacting the hard cement floor. He let out an 'ufh', but then re-crossed his arms across his chest (and the A-10's foot).

"THAT'S ALL YOU GOTTA SAY, HUH? DO I NEED TO SHOW YOU, DUMBASS? WANNA DIE?"

"A bit of advice, never play poker."

"...what?" The A-10 went from 'ferocious' to 'yougottabefuckin'kiddingme' in the blink of an eye.

"There's a reason behind everything. And what would it be behind killing pilots? Enjoyment? Bullshit," he repeated, staring the A-10 directly in the eye.

"If you didn't want to be flown, you would have left already. Not like anyone or anything here could stop you. Why would you stay on this base, and still think that whoever's in charge would keep sending in sacrifices?"

"BECAUSE I'M WORTH IT, DON'T YOU KNOW?" The A-10 shifted its weight forwards. "MANEUVERABILITY! SKILL. FIREPOWER," it yelled, opening its mouth and showing the pilot the Avenger pointed at his head.

"You're shooting blanks." The pilot said, again, confidently. "When I was cleaning you, remember? Yeah."

The A-10 frowned again, caught out.

"Another thing. Why would you wait so long to murder some pilot? Always on a flight, after they've gone through basic training, gotten to know you..." The pilot pointed at its face. "You've had plenty of opportunity to kill me. You don't seem like you'd want to kill me either. You don't, do you, A-10?"

The A-10 didn't seem to be able to pick between a frown or a confident grin, shakily saying, "H-ha! That's...that's just so that the end's even...more sweet! You'd never see it...ha, coming! Ha ha!"

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," the pilot mused, almost to himself.

The A-10 picked the same 'thefuck' expression from earlier, then slowly adopted a furious one, grabbing the pilot by the shoulders and removing the foot, hoisting him up on his feet and shaking him back and forth angrily. "YOU'RE A COUPLE OF SWITCHES SHORT OF A COCKPIT, AREN'T YOU? I'M GOING TO SNAP YOUR GODDAMN NECK LIKE A TW-"

In the midst of the being shaken, the pilot responded, "Wait, do that again."

The A-10 stopped. "What. What is it n-"

The pilot simply reached out and turned its head to the side, looking at the paint.

"You don't leave fingerprints, do you?"

"THE FUCK DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?"

"There are fingerprints on your cockpit."

The A-10 dropped the pilot and made that tentative hand-waving thing that people do when they want to touch something, but know they aren't allowed to.

"W-what. Bullshit, you're just-"

The pilot gave it a stony stare, the sheer seriousness in it shocking the A-10 into silence. How could he maintain composure through this? How?

The pilot walked over to his side desk, dusting himself off and retrieving his shaving mirror. He held it up to the A-10, which snatched it and held it up.

"Where? Where?" The A-10 frantically waved the mirror around its head until the pilot caught its wrist and held it in place.

"Have you been seeing other pilots?"

The A-10 slowly looked over to the pilot, who failed to keep a tiny impish grin off his own face. "What? It was a j-"

"NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR JOKING. AT ALL. SOMEONE'S TOUCHED ME AND I DON'T KNOW WHO IT IS. DID YOU? ARE YOU JUST-WHEN I WAS ASLEEP?"

"No. Do you think I'd want to clean you again so soon or something?"

The A-10 tossed that one around for a couple of seconds before saying, "N-no..."

The pilot looked at the A-10 looking back at him, worried. "Calm down for now." The pilot started picking through his ex-bed.

It took him about thirty seconds to notice the short, hiccup-y sobbing noises coming from behind him, and when he turned, saw the A-10 clutching the mirror to its chest, standing there, still with a frown on its face, leaking fluid out of its sensors. It didn't seem nearlt as intimidating or dangerous as it was a minute ago.

"How can you just sit there and not care?"

The plane took a shaky step forwards.

"You didn't even hic know that I killed people and then you did and you didn't even care."

The pilot frowned, then his expression softened, pulling the plane into a hug. The plane broke down sobbing, clutching onto the little mirror.

"I trust you, A-10. You're my plane, if I can't trust you, then I can't expect you to trust me."

"But WHY," the plane sobbed. "You said, that, there's a hic reason behind everything!"

"'Because I want to' is a good enough reason. Don't you think?"

After another thirty seconds of the sleek synthmetal aeroplane clutching onto the mirror, it dropped that too, breaking it, in order to wrap its pliant synthmetal arms around the pilot. He enjoyed the cool synthmetal, and the plane enjoyed the pilot's warmth, quietly sobbing into the man's shoulder.

"I...hate you, you know that?"

The pilot didn't reply, perhaps mourning the loss of his mirror as well.

"I don't...even know what is happening anymore. You and, and now this, and..."

"Shh, no tears, only hugs now."