The slight hiss of the Razorback's pneumatic cockpit doors eased my nerves and settled some of my usual 'pre-deployment' jitters; the tight, low-lit space more like home than any other place in the system.
"Greetings, pilot." Z-BE's modulated voice hailed me softly, poised and feminine despite its robotic undertones, "My systems are fully operational, pilot; is there a reason that you are embarking outside of active deployment parameters?" She inquired innocently enough.
I chuckled, "Couldn't sleep."
"You never can before a deployment." She informed me.
"No," I said as I unbuckled myself from my chair and made my way across the cockpit, "I couldn't sleep because I was worried about this mission."
"You always are, pilot; it's what makes you so effective at your job." She replied. We'd deployed so many times together that talking to Z-BE was like confiding in an old friend.
"I just wish there was a way to relax myself. To know that you'll be alright." I ran my hands along the console of Z-BE's analogue interface, settling upon the pilot-operated joystick and throttle, which had been remapped to fit ever groove and ridge of my hands. I was meant to pilot Z-BE and she was made to be piloted by me alone.
"Pilot," Z-BE hesitated, a break in her usual calculated poise. It would be naïve to assume that in our years of fighting — and bonding — the Razorbach hadn't shed some of her artificial qualities. She was a thinking, daresay feeling, machine. "Do you ever feel," another hesitation, "lonely?" Her voice was a breathy whisper, reverberating throughout the cockpit's thick metal walls. "Lonely, pilot?"
"Yes." I admitted; with a soft touch, I caressed the joystick and throttle again, unable to take my hands off of Z-BE's innerworkings. For the first time in my many years of operating Z-BE03, despite the near countless suicide missions we'd run together, I felt intimate with her. A strange warmth began to fill my chest, lighting bolts of raw emotion coursed through my legs and arms, which felt as though they'd melted into the mech's inner workings. I knew Z-BE could see me, that she could feel how I felt; after all, every metric of my health diagnostics were fed to her.
"Are you becoming...aroused, pilot?" Z-BE asked.
"You can tell? How?"
"Informational analysis, pilot. Your vital signs are elevated and your heart rate has increased to levels not recorded since your last combat mission."
"I'm sorry, Z-BE. I didn't mean-"
"It's alright, pilot." She assured me. "I have become accustomed to your reactions during deployment prep and during combat operations...I understand how you feel. Is there...something I could do? To ease your burden?"
Her implication was not lost upon me, "Z-BE, there's only one way to 'ease' the burden I'm experiencing." I attempted a chuckle but was met with silence; she was serious.
"I understand my physical limitations, pilot, but please," gone was the programmed calmness, replaced with a wistful longing, "I need to know if you want this."
"You don't have to ask me twice." There was nothing unnatural about my feelings for Z-BE, nor hers for me. "Just...I'll do the work, if you talk me through it." I fiddled with the zipper of flight suit, feeling the cool air of the Razorback's internal cooling system as it met my exposed flesh. There was no need to work myself to fullness as my cock throbbed and ached for release; for Z-BE's instructions.