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They didn’t want either of us to live this long. Sucks for them—we’re good at living in spite. We’re good at surviving, at fighting, at never stopping.

Today is the last day we exist in spite of Command, but it’s also just another day that ends in y. Most pilots are paired with a seasoned mentor. Not us. No, powerful men at Command threw us in the pit of a Moth to fight their pointless space war. They don’t care about queer people like us. We aren’t real people to Command. A lot of people aren’t real people to Command. But to the Moth? Well. Moths prefer change.

The Moth’s chitin plating stretches taut over metal bones; the giant robot’s skeleton, wings tucked around itself like a fucked up blanket.

Its bones are our bones, sharp and stubborn. The two of us in the pit, dead center of the Moth’s chest. Me, on the right. Petrichor, on the left. Viscous quills of hollow cartilage connect to metal conduit ports grafted to our spines. They trail from our backs and delicately thread into the biomechanical heart we fuel. In turn, it pumps us full of a bonding fluid, purple and sickly sweet. Clamps lock to our feet and arms. The pit floods. We welcome drowning in it, our blood and Moth blood combining and shifting until we connect and we pilot and we belong.

Cielo, Cielo, Cielo.

Her thoughts sing-song in time with the pit’s rhythmic synchronization. Heartbeat and song entwine until we’re one. I smile, despite the gravity of the situation.

Petrichor, Petrichor.

The Moth lurches up the ramp. There’s no comms beyond our personal link, no support. We know our orders: Kill enemy Moths. Over and over until we’re either killed in combat or the Moth fully shifts us. And after that? I guess we’ll find out.

The names on the launch display aren’t ours. I hate them. They’re names of men who never existed—only our call signs are true. Cielo and Petrichor and Moth One.

There were other Moth Ones before us, but they’re gone. There will be other Moth Ones after us. We aren’t special. We aren’t anyone’s hero. We’re just here.

This is our last launch, we tell our Moth. Petrichor’s voice and mine in unison.

I imagine Moth One understands.

There’s only one thing on the launch display I care about: the timer. It gets lower and lower. Now it reads 120 seconds.

Without warning, we’re jettisoned into the fight.

Command is at war—maybe with a rival corporation, maybe with another Command. Who knows? They never say. What they do say? The enemy is a scourge, the ads hiss. They’re evil, our handlers whisper. They’re not right, the promos intone. I never know if they’re talking about Petrichor and me or the enemies; it’s all the same phrasing.

We rip our bonesword out of our arm and cut through an enemy Moth, bisecting it cleanly. Purple fluid floats into space, trivial splotches of dark purple—magenta, Petrichor’s thoughts refine, always with a more precise definition.

In the melded Moth consciousness, we look at each other. Here we aren’t wearing helmets. Here we are our truest selves. Petrichor’s eyes are an iridescent swirl, pupils almost catlike now. My body pushes against my suit, yearning to break free. We both feel it—the intense urge to rip it all away and simply be what we are, what we’ve been all along underneath.

We dash from enemy to enemy, wings extended. We kill and kill and kill. Blue and red bits of chitin and bone drift all around us. We’re panting, trying desperately to catch our breath when the timer runs out.

Afterward, Petrichor is still, but I sense her soul-deep relief and exhaustion. We linger in it for one, blissful moment.

Command issues the Moth termination sequence.

Moth One shudders, then slumps forward, adrift. We see only darkness, hear only silence, but we can still feel each other. There’s no comms, and no way for us to speak. But that’s okay. I love you, I think to her. I’m never leaving you. We’ll just drift. We’ll be okay. We’ll—

The chest wall shrieks from impact and curls inward like flower petals opening with the dawn. Light pours in. Giant claws stop inches from my helmet. They pull our chest away and we scream. Space does the rest. The force rips Petrichor from her locks—thank fuck the emergency declamp works even without power.

The enemy—seemingly content with our plum or magenta or whatever-the-fuck color blood—flies away to fight other Moths in the distance. Through the mangled Moth they look like twinkling stars. But I don’t give a fuck about the battle. No, I’m screaming her name until my voice breaks, scanning my field of vision for her body, a body part—something.

My skin ripples and shudders. It hurts, it itches. I want to be free of it at last. The chitin growing underneath shoves through. The skin flakes off it like a snake shedding its scales.

No—like a moth shoving free of its chrysalis.

At the thought, Moth One twitches.

The rest of the transformation is agony and ecstasy, a shoving and an embrace, a jump into an unknown that sing-songs my name the way Petrichor does. Any hint of red in the blood dripping from the seams of my old shell shift into a deep, beautiful plum. My scream is changed, flanged, lighter. It’s an exhale, a release, a joy, a terror.

My new body pushes out of my suit. I don’t die—moths were meant for space. Moth One writhes, trying to break free.

It wants to help. It wants to be changed, too. I sync with it alone. I let it help.

The strain nearly kills me before I can comprehend my new awareness. Moths are meant for two pilots, and it’s scared for Petrichor. I’ve never felt its emotions—or knew they existed so completely before now.

With a final snap, the last human components controlling it break. The Moth’s wings extend at the same time insect-like wings erupt from my shoulder blades. It burns, but I don’t care about anything but Petrichor.

With the Moth’s vision and scanners, I find her easily. She drifts in a field of magenta and purple. Her helmet is broken, her suit torn around her, replaced only by chitin. She moves and waves her arms at me.

The movement must be too much. The enemy veers back around, trajectory on target for Petrichor’s tiny blip.

Absolutely fucking not.

The Moth bursts forward.

Piloting alone is a death wish, that’s what they say. The effort is too great for one person. But I’m not entirely human anymore, so fuck it. It’ll be worth it to keep Petrichor alive. She deserves that much, after everything.

Maybe it’s the punctured-but-still-functioning Moth visage charging towards them, but the enemy stops, bearing witness as I cup Petrichor in my hands. She looks up at me and Moth One and laughs.