Pinned
Dance of Swans
A piece of mech prose
I know you. I’ve never met you, but I know you because we are the same. We are both imperfect angels made by man. Made to pilot these mechanised chassis made for nothing but perfect violence. I look at you through the glass eyes of my robotic second skin. We are the same, imperfect angels for perfect violence.
And as I reach forward, there is sensation! Sensation as I swing down upon your own metallic form a sword made to cleave apart empire’s, and you weave out of the way, your metal legs, made to bound across infinity.
Our bodies aren’t bodies. Gears and servos, turning in perfect harmony, to symphony of our cold fusion reactor hearts, roaring, screaming, singing, all at the same time as we boost forward. Skin made from the hearts of planets, and internal workings, churning, toiling. Sensors and cameras instead of eyes, letting us see far beyond what our forever marred by alteration flesh could ever let us. Instead of shot nerves and veins we have power lines, veins of electricity, liquid firing powering us now. Steel bones and titanium skin, electric blood and instead of gnashing teeth and claws, we have been given weapons of fire and blade. If these are not our bodies, what are these? Are these simply just our coffin?
Together we move yet opposed we act. The law of blood and steel is pushing us forward. We could not pay for our steel so we paid with our body and blood. Our arms actuate, like tendons and muscles pulling, aiming our guns at each other’s heads.
Our new bodies let us move meteoric like the messengers of the gods, searing blind those who are not worthy to gaze upon us as we leave death and civlity’s end in our wake. Homes and cathederals turned to rubble and ash from our waltz. Lives reduced to mere numbers as the result of our deadly dance, a ballroom gala of violence, with a chandelier of bullets, bodies and buildings. Our forms locked in an eternal clash but for a moment. Blades and guns clashing and locking together
In an immaculate dance of swans we are one but yet separate, imperfect creatures of a perfect blasphemous violence, that only our heretical bodies would allow, made from steel and lightning and man’s own god complex hubris, we are angels made by god to fight and be forgotten about when our task is done, and yet none of us has yet to become lucifer, lucent and reticent and all the ready to fight for their ideals, instead of fighting for their masters who call us dogs. Until the morning star rises, we shall be trapped under the eternal night skies, with a field of stars littered above, locked in our eternal dance of swans






