[…]already with us, those exceptional humans who reject assimilation into the broader systems of ability-taxonomy. Proprioceptopaths are considered by some evolutionary ontologists to be a “new stage in human development” — people who are gifted with the superhuman abilities to consciously control and sense every basic function of their bodies. Outwardly, an incredible skill — with clear applications in so many avenues, not the least of which being exceptional combat capabilities. However, total control over one’s body is a form of mentally-taxing labor that regular humans could not even begin to understand. Could these “gifts” really be a hidden curse? Research on proprioceptopaths is still young, considering their rarity (though more are being found every year) — but preliminary epidemiological assessments reveal higher-than-typical incidence of psychological instabilities within proprioceptopath populations. Already, medical interventions to “address” the presumed deficits imparted by proprioceptopathy are being investigated, including psychotherapeutic interventions, neuroinhibitive implants, and even surgical interventions to excise unwanted proprioceptopathic capabilities. We are forced to ask: what is the price of such immense control?
Proprioceptopathy: Homo sapiens or Homo imperium?, article published in the HappyHealthyHolyCo Medical Journal, UCF 445
Before I found Thaumiel, I was plagued day and night by too much noise. Too much control! I couldn’t sleep, struggled to remember to blink, struggled to integrate with my community and my spouse. After Thaumiel, I’m living a new life. I finally get to be normal! It’s like the heavens have parted for me. My name is Anthrin Vreyman, and I recommend Thaumiel.
Ad for Thaumiel, neuroinhibitive implant for treating proprioceptopathy, UCF 450
Hangar 16, UCFS Rumsfeld, low-earth orbit, UCF 04/02/454, 1902 hours
I am the blade’s edge. I am that keen… I… I’m…
Flechette Jaydamn breathes in, abortively, struggling to get her bearings. The VENUS… The thing in it… Flechette tries again. I am the blade’s edge…
Yet it seems that discipline is not the correct vector of attack. Squeezing harder in a halting attempt to relax has the opposite effect on Flechette’s activation. Nerves malfunctioning. She has to ground herself. She…
Edge breathes deep. Palms the throttle of the VENUS. Soothes herself on its familiar grooves, its firmness and solidity. Upon this rock… In spite of herself, in spite of everything that it’s done… She breathes slowly, forcefully.
“Hey, VENUS.”
As if in response, the cockpit lights up, unprompted, with no visible activation mechanism. As if welcoming her home.
Trinity is here. Today’s her proof-of-concept as Flechette’s cross. The fact should comfort her. Protocol demands it. Instead, resentment stings the back of Flechette’s throat. He’s not that interchangeable.
The last remaining member of her family here — the one she knows has her six, unwaveringly… It’s VENUS. One soul cleaved in two.
“LOCK IN, KILLBOYS!”
Trinity’s hollers blare through the commsline. The faces of some of the other members of the squadron belie the misgivings they feel about having this brat on the team. And this is Flechette’s first mission back in command — meaning Trinity, technically, inherits the position of second-in-command. Trinity whoops again on the comms.
“Thank you, Joker.” Seraph’s voice carries the smallest, measured twinge of disdain. If Trinity catches it, nothing in her behavior betrays it.
“It’s an honor to serve alongside you, Sir!” Trinity salutes. Flechette can’t tell if it’s intended for Seraph or for her. Somebody groans. She can only hope that Trinity will earn the respect of the team by the end of the Op.
Flechette begins the recap briefing.
“Target is a PLAA military academy complex.” Flechette feels something catch in her throat, for a moment. She clears it. “…Heavily guarded. Par time is 22 minutes. Our job is to deal with the THRONES, to open a path for ground infantry later down the line to storm the complex. We have no idea what kind of Thanatic Arms the enemy will have on this mission. Keep your wits about you.” Flechette’s expression softens.
“I want us all coming home from this one. I believe in all of you. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the seat of command. I know some of you have been… worried. About me. I promise, with my whole heart—”
She pauses.
“—I am committed to the Mission. We fight together. Hoorah!”
“HOORAH!” The KILLBOYS sound off in unison.
One minute till launch.
Flechette palms the reliable firmness of the throttle once more.
“Let’s earn our paychecks, boys.”
Somehow, through the heat and noise of a drop, the violent penetration of reentry, Flechette can hear it on the commsline.
Trinity is laughing.
The ISCARIOT is an angel of death. Four arms, each ending in a Thanatic-clawed hand — otherwise unarmed, unadorned, in basic THRONE armor and essentially humanoid. But that makes sense, doesn’t it? Work with Trinity’s strengths. She knows her body better than anyone.
Trinity rages through the battlefield. Moving faster than should be possible, using precision blasts of her ankle and shoulder rockets to flicker and weave surgically through the battle, using all four clawed hands independently, expertly. Within 30 seconds, she’s ripped the entry plugs straight out of the chests of 10 different THRONES.
And the whole time, she’s not laughing. She’s humming. Beethoven’s Seventh, Second Movement. Flechette recognizes the tune. Pre-war classical.
The way she flows through enemy fire is terrifying. The enemy THRONES can’t hit her, like they’re trying to shoot smoke. As Flechette commands the rest of the KILLBOYS, leading them through formations, attack vectors, battle plans, the ISCARIOT is the permanent wildcard, performing incredibly, but on its own circuit. On multiple occasions, Trinity intervenes at just the right moment across the battle to save the life of a comrade and his THRONE, brutally dismantling the enemy before they have a chance to secure the kill.
The mission is successful in half of par time. Of the team’s combined THRONE casualties of 52, 27 belong to Trinity. Not a single KILLBOY was lost in this battle.
Flechette turns back to look at the smoking crater of the PLAA academy, haunted by an unexplainable feeling of sickness.
Back on the Rumsfeld, Flechette watches as the team celebrates Trinity with wild hollering and whooping. No one had ever seen THRONE combat like that, known it was even possible. Trinity has gone from being the spoiled brat nobody wanted, to the unquestionable asset that everybody celebrates. A consecrated warrior. All twelve saved KILLBOYS come to Trinity, in person, and offer her their thanks for saving their lives. Trinity is surprisingly humble, polite to each of them. Tells them that it is the duty of the team to watch each other’s backs. As the KILLBOYS hoist Trinity overhead and march her down towards the mess hall, celebrating, Trinity meets Flechette’s eyes, grins.
Flechette finds herself caught off guard by the feeling that pierces through her. Like a boltgun to the chest. A feeling she hasn’t felt since her days as a schoolgirl. Oh, god.
Is this a crush?