A Summons From The God-Empress

The week goes by in a blur, largely spent in that chair, wasted on ‘shine interspersed with brushing up the schematics on a few projects.

It’s only when she hears a gentle wrapping on the door does she remember the world outside her room.

With a creak the door swings open to reveal one of the God-Empresses whores, a little thing only a little more then half of Mox’s height, with trembling voice she relays her clearly rehearsed message.

“Th.. the God-Empress summons you… there is work to be done” she squeaks, quickly darting back down the hall from whence she came before Mox can even acknowledge the order.

It’s unfortunate that Mox could do so little with what time she had, but at least she can look forward to being out there, just her and the rig, testing hardware on anything she found out on the dunes, away from this place and the pompous, weak people that call it home.

———————————————————————

The throne room has returned to some modicum of order since the last time Mox had been here, the God-Empress sits upon her throne, holding court like a monarch of old, visibly bored as a pair of desert rats bicker a few feet from her.

Crowded around the throne of ice are the many concubines of the God-Empress, serving as a gallery of sorts as they murmur amongst themselves.

Several guards stand around the throne room, leaning against pillars or standing on either side of the doors and on either side of the throne room sit automated turrets, cobbled together from scrap and held together with rope or rusty bolts, they slowly survey the room, cumbersome cameras scanning the faces of all they pass over.

Before the God-Empress are a pair of wastelanders, each the representatives of different clans that dwell in God-Empress controlled land, from what Mox can gather they both appear to have arrived at the same time asking for aid.

“From Father Brass, all things prosper, his teachings are the anvil through which civilization is forged, but I wouldn’t expect a mere laborer to understand that…” this woman is clad in robes that have been stitched together from numerous animal hides, from her hips hangs a belt laden with tools, what little skin can be seen of the lanky figure appears horribly burned. It doesn’t take much effort to peg her as a member of the Piscatelli Clan better known as The Temple Of The Leaden Lady.

“You can talk as much as ya like about yer imaginary friend at the end of the day you just make bullets and ye can’t eat bullets!” Shorts a substantially smaller woman. Clad in workman’s clothing with heavy, mud covered boots, it’s clear to see she comes from the Daubany clan, the only growers of fresh produce for miles.

“It seems your youngest would disagree with that notion…” The Piscatelli girl says off handedly prompting the Daubany girl to place a hand on the grip of her revolver, staring daggers into the taller woman.

“You take that back! Thems fightin words and ain’t no Daubany girl ever walk away from a fight!” She says through clenched, bared teeth.

“THAT IS ENOUGH” booms the voice of the God-Empress who is clearly at the ends of her patience, causing both women to fall silent as she rises from her seat.

The God-Empress had always been an imposing figure since she arrived in this part of the wastes. Standing at 7ft in height and the muscle mass to make most mutants shiver in fear, it’s plain to see she is a Changeling, though despite her powerful physique, no one quite knows where her true power lies.

“I have heard enough of your bitching and moaning, I’ll send support when I good and goddamn well feel like it!” She barks, prompting both of the clan members to leave the room, cursing under their breaths.

With a sigh she takes a seat once more, resting her head back as she snaps her fingers and without any other prompting one of the girls crawls on hands and kneels, her face becoming obscured by the God-Empresses crotch as the sounds of wet suckling emanate from between her muscled thighs.

Her eyes close for a moment, enjoying the sensation for a second before opening back up, taking note of Moxes presence before calling her over as well.

“Ah… I hope you enjoyed your time off because I have need of you once more…” she says, bringing a hand down to the girls head, gripping her dirty blonde hair tightly.

“Mmmph…~ ah…~ as I’m sure you’ve guessed, that attack last week didn’t fall from the rifts… they struck at my lands first… some of them took over the lands with ****, others were persuaded to forget their duty…” she begins.

“That means no more food coming, no more bullets for our boys… no more pretty pictures on the tv…. And I cannot have that!” She continues paying more attention to the eager slut between her legs than the conversation.

“So! I need you to head out there, take back my lands and remind my dear subjects to never bite the hand that feeds… lest you suffer the fist…” she says turning her gaze back up to Mox who crosses her arms expectantly.

“Ah..! Yeah, your rig… I had some of my finest working on it, even gave ‘er a tune up! Nothing but the best for my number one girl!” She says with a chuckle, turning her head to her harem to give them a conspiratorial wink.

“And uh… before I forget…” she begins as though it were a mere afterthought. “Due to the particularly urgent nature of this operation I’ll be sending you a wee bit of help… not that you couldn’t handle this alone… of course…”

Just then Mox catches movement out the corner of her eye, right upon her periphery, Mox knows well that it could only be one person but… how had she not noticed her?

Perhaps the only member of the God-Empresses inner circle that could stand toe to toe with Mox, the only person who inspires as much fear and dread.

Striding out from one of the alcoves of the throne room is Blood-Upon-Sand the ideal tool for when precision and finesse are in order.

The woman stands tall, her body lithe, showing little muscle definition along her caramel skin, her clothing is minimal, a necessity for long treks under the sun, along her arms and legs are host to ritualistic scars that ebb and flow like tides.

The upper portion of her face it painted with soot causing her warm brown eyes to pop out from the contrast. Her black hair is tied back in a loose bun and held in place by long sharp hair pins that resemble metallic birds feathers.

Blood-Upon-Sand cradles her rifle in her arms like a newborn, homemade charms hang from the barrel and the stock is marked with paint in a style similar to that found in the ritual scars.

She gives no acknowledgement to Mox as she takes her place by her side, eyes locked on the God-Empress with a strange intensity as though she held some grand secret that weighs heavy on her soul.

“You two are my best, I got the utmost confidence that you can sort this all out…” and with that her attention returns fully to her girls, prompting Mox and Blood-Upon-Sand to dismiss themselves, walking out of the grand hall of the throne room and out into the streets of Rime Rock.

This was… upsetting to Mox, there’s a reason she worked alone, at the end of the day, she doesn’t like people, and now she’s **** to drag alone little Ms “Shoots-People-In-Back” across the dunes.

But… it’s fine, at least, if nothing else, she’ll be out there, in her mech, doing what she’s best at.

The streets are bustling with activity, merchants hawk their wares, slaves hurry about on errands and guards slowly walk the street, guns firmly in hand as they survey the many faces of the crowd.

“I’ll find you when you leave town” says a voice from behind but when Mox turns to acknowledge the tribal woman she’s already disappeared into the crowd of people leaving Mox to continue her trek to the mechanic alone.

———————————————————————

The garage is in its usual state of chaos, War-Rigs and Long-Haulers lay up on raised platforms, some of them visibly damaged and others in various states of repair.

The entire garage is a mess, all available workspace or shelf is full, hosting everything from ancient rusted cans of Alacrum Spray that must have expired by now, hefty tools that clearly do not belong to the same kit and stained, half torn car manuals.

Along the walls hang ‘Trophies’ taken from Sprockets misbegotten youth among The Wreckers, before she found her true calling of putting machines back together not taking them apart.

The western wall is dominated by a single massive wheel, so big it could crush Mox’s Mech like an old tin can. Hanging along the southern wall opposite the door to the garage hangs a massive boomstick Sprocket calls a ‘Betty’ it looks like a few of the cannons Mox had seen on some of the classier War-Rigs but this one is easily 10X the size of those.

Hanging from a series of hooks is the mech, the mighty craft wrapped in chains giving it the look of a dangerous prisoner. The plating appears brand new, or at least as new as the wasteland allows, it’s still under the effects of oxidation but no bullet holes pepper the plates and no dents appear present in the cockpit and the damaged arm appears to have been patched up with the steel housing being re-welded and the the cables being replaced.

Just as Mox finishes her evaluation of the repairs, Sprocket appears behind her, having made no sound whatsoever, bounding ahead to present her work.

She looks upon the great mechanical beast with pride, as though looking upon her own child as her eyes scan along the chassis, searching for any imperfection in the plates or rivets holding them in place.

“This just might be my best work yet” she says, not looking back to Mox as she speaks pressing a button that hangs from the ceiling causing the chains to give more slack, on and on until the feet of the mech touch down, creating a dull metal clang.

“The plates and welding took less time then I anticipated so I had a look in the cockpit, did you know there was a radio in there?” She says finally glancing back to Mox.

Truth is, she did know, the radio had been her fathers idea, but he never got to finish it and with Mox knowing nothing about radios it always just sat in there, a blasted out box of nothing that sat to her left, functioning more as a table then an actually usable tool, yet despite it all, she never could find the strength to do away with it.

“Patrols usually have radios on them and they all have a hotline back to HQ, I’ll inform the God-Empress so she can send you orders and updates out in the field”

“Good work, Sprocket, Impressive as always” says Mox as she approaches the mech. Sprocket was annoying, loud and peppy, but she does good work, and she’s the only person in the world who could be trusted with the mechs maintenance other then Mox herself, it’s just a shame that she has a hard rule about being the only one to touch her tools.

Climbing up the front of the mech, using various handholds to scale the mighty vessel before setting her hands on a wheel, similar to those you’d find on submarine doors or in bunkers, slowly she turns the wheel little by little until the door comes free, the cockpit opening up like one of those fancy car doors you can find out in the cities.

She swings inside with the assistance of a handhold and sits down in her seat, the cushions compressed down from years of constant use, she pulls a lever to her right and the cockpit closes up, entombing Mox once more into her personal sarcophagus of steel and servos.

The cockpit is dark, the only implication of what lay outside the mech comes from a bulky, tinted black bullet proof window at eye level with the operator. Thankfully however Mox knows precisely where everything is, through a simple series of lever pulls and button presses the mech takes a step lurching step forward.

Mox is able to articulate the mechs many intricacies and kinks, what limbs have input delay, the way the weight of the rig sways slightly when reaching a certain speed, the length of the legs and how far each stride can carry the mech, they all blend seamlessly together in her mind to the point where it almost feels as natural as controlling her own body.

She leaves the garage and begins her trek out of town, most folk in town know well enough to stay out of her way as the lumbering, creaking suit marches through the streets, stopping at the mighty gates of Rime Rock, hollering is heard outside as the men on the walls begin the arduous task of o pushing the gates open, a task that’s accomplished by a dozen men all working to turn a bulky wheel that pulls the mighty blocks of cement that comprise the gate open through a series of pulleys and ropes.

Stepping out into the desert surrounding the arctic city of Rime Rock, she can hear the sound of footsteps, metallic pattering like someone walking on metal, the noise travels up the mechs rear and overhead before the figure drops down in front of the window, holding onto the handhold of the mech for support.

“Nearly all outlying areas of the God-Empresses lands have fallen, You lead, I’ll watch from on high” says Blood-Upon-Sand, not saying a single word more then is necessary before she disappears from view, the scuffling of boots on metal implies that she is now sitting on the roof of the mech.

With a huff Mox proceeds, marching the mech into the desert winds of the wastes, her destination clear in her minds eye.