In Perfect Sync

Story features force feminization via nanogoo, mindjacking, body takeover, identity play, and other MC related stuff but NO IDENTITY DEATH, PROMISE. They just become brain roommates.

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Quentin entered into the machine's cockpit and felt like a god on holiday. This was technically an official Alliance boneyard, but it still surprised him to not find a single cut mark or frayed wire. Every circuit that lined the walls was in place, every display and tactile backup interface component was where it should be. Normally it would have been stripped to the struts, first by the government looking for replacement parts, then by the yard workers themselves looking to pad their salary, then at last by any random scavver with a hauler who wanted to make a quick cred.

To think they'd leave a perfectly preserved Battle Titan just lying around a boneyard! Well, not quite lying around. It stood a good seventy-five metres off the ground, moored in a modular gantry long since rusted into a locked position. He had hacked through several firewalls, torn his nice leather bomber jacket on the razorwire fence protecting the inner yard, snuck past a sentry drone or two, and used a novatorch to get past the final seal. But compared to the potential power that he could wield with a weapon like this...it was beyond worth the price of admission.

He clipped a flashlight to the headband around his head, stripped off his jacket to leave him in his stark black coveralls, and got to work. The fusion core was a push-start operation, that wouldn't be difficult. It would still have enough juice in the fuel tanks as well. The real problem was the machine's AI.

The size and scale of the mechanics involved with piloting a giant robot made the prospect of controlling each megaservo individually a daunting one. Battle Titans of this make and vintage got around this complexity by operating through a perfect body and mind synchronization with an artificial intelligence, sometimes called a Back Seat Driver. But the BSD could only make this sync once, so integrated was this reciprocal connection between pilot and machine to its overall operation. When the pilot died, so did the AI for all intents and purposes.

But this wasn't the 80s anymore. In the 27th century, integration didn't have to be so drastic. Putting a neural emulator in between him and the machine intelligence would be plenty to handle the load. To smooth things along, however, he'd still need to spoof the original pilot's identity. And that was the real trick: convincing an AI that its pilot, someone who was likely dead or in VR Hospice at the most, had returned to turn it on again.

Disabling internal sensors was a must, he knew that right away. He went about disconnecting the nodes on the walls one by one, blinding the machine to the cockpit and, hopefully, the details about its pilot. Midway through soldering off loose wires, he saw a flash of light from the corner of his eye. The armoured cockpit of a Battle Titan had very little physical windows to the outside world. But there were a trio of transparent neoplex slits that allowed for vision even if someone takes out the cameras. And something with bright spotlights had just flicked past the one on the left.

Instinctually, he ducked down. It took a moment to remind himself he wasn't dodging the night manager of a posh capsule hotel, he was beneath several inches of adamantite and parasteel plate. Not even thermals could pierce that. He did wait in silence for whatever was outside to mosey along, however. It did, and he got back to work.

The last sensor node snapped off its cabling with a satisfying *pop* sound. He tossed it into a pile with the rest, then got to restoring connection to the backup batteries. Revving the Titan's main engines, the fusion reactors, would be like turning on a siren. He couldn't do that. Not yet, anyway. Of the many redundant features the war machine had, its power wells should have been the most reliable. The design for String-net Liquid Antiparticle Batteries, or SLABs, had changed rarely in the intervening decades. Don't Fix What Ain't Broke, as the ancient manuals said.

In the back of the cockpit, behind the pilot's seat and obscured by a blast panel, two elongated rectangles awaited him. One glowed a faint cyan along the edges, the only was completely dark. Perhaps he'd expected too much of the old machine. But 50% of emergency power was better than nothing. Stringing out the long cables for the mental emulator, he clipped it to the chair, then fed one line to the neural shunt built into the headrest and one to the port in his neck. If all went to plan, the AI would think it was directly linked with him while running in a BrainBox program that could easily be filtered and isolated by his neural rig. He thanked his lucky stars that this was an analog system, done with wires and connections and old style digital computing. Had he been trying to jack a modern machine with Direct Rig Connect systems or, god forbid, a nanoslime interface, Quentin would have been out of luck. He slammed the huge toggle that connected the battery back to the main power loop. Indicator lights throughout the cockpit flickered into life, like a hundred tiny eyes blinking away sleep.

"Systems reinitialising," crackled a discordant, artificial voice. "Error. Internal scanners compromised. Safety of pilot cannot be ascertained. Attempting verbal communication. Pilot Maia, please acknowledge."

This was it. Moment of truth. He clambered into the pilot's seat and keyed the internal mic. "Machine, please report status."

"Good afternoon, Maia," the voice replied instead. Its words settled into a smooth, feminine tone. "I hope you've recovered from your injuries and are in good spirits."

Quentin waited to see if this was a rhetorical question, but it apparently was waiting for a response. "Uhh, yeah. Hello..." The name. Titans had names. He'd seen it while he'd bolted up the stairs like a madman. It had been stenciled directly underneath a stylized fox on the far right of the machine's torso plate. "Hello Vixen. Sure has been a while."

There was a pause, and Quentin's heart pounded a little harder. He'd disabled all the internal sensors, there shouldn't be any way for the AI to determine he wasn't who he said he was. But nevertheless, he was about to connect his mind, however indirectly, with a machine based on a fraudulent identity.

"There's something unusual about your voice, Maia," Vixen replied.

"Fuck, shit, fuck," he cursed under his breath. Of course it would have voice recognition protocols, of course it would! "You suffered a lot of internal damage during the fight. Your, uhh, your vocal calibration must be off."

"I have noticed that I cannot sense my interior, but other systems seem to be operating within normal parameters. My outside sensors, however, detect several anomalies. The existence of several large moons indicates we are no longer on Phaestus 4, and though I acknowledge that my database isn't able to connect with local chronometry, my internal clock indicates seventy-two years have passed. But perhaps I am misinterpreting its readings."

A flicker of hope lit in his heart; he might still be able to pull this off. "Uhh, yeah, potentially. But we're going to need to save that diagnostic for another time. I'm going to need to activate the fusion reactor and motive systems momentarily. We're deep in hostile territory and we need to reach an extraction point." That was technically all true. He had a JD-3 heavy atmospheric lifter waiting about an hour's walk by giant robot away. Any closer and he would have been easily picked up by the boneyard's security.

"Acknowledged. Initializing pilot sync."

The neural shunt lashed at his side as it fished around for a neck port that wasn't there. Instead, it found the BrainBox emulation program, which should use the sync data to formulate the perfect tandem brain pattern and allow for the giant machine to move without its original pilot. He watched the display on the side of the screen as a waterfall of text flowed downward, describing the changes the emulation was making to couple with the AI in granular, confusing detail.

"Pilot sync..." the mechanical voice trailed off, something he hadn't heard before from an AI this old. It was like it was actually considering the words before saying them aloud. "Pilot synchronization achieved, but you are not Maia."

The smile that had been forming died on his lips. "What do you mean?"

"You do not sound like Maia, you do not talk like Maia, and your brain appears to be some kind of simulacrum of Maia. But it is not my Maia. Therefore, you are not her. Explain yourself." The hatch to the cockpit slammed shut, deadbolts clacking into place. He thought about making a break for it, but that would give away the game entirely.

"I'm...I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Vixen, but...I've gone through some intense medical procedures. Our last battle left me critically injured, and the doctors had to repair me from the ground up." A long shot, more than that, a long shot practically from the five point line of a Blurnsketball court. But this was an AI, after all. It didn't have to be believable to him, all it needed to be was plausible to it.

"Indeed? Well, perhaps I can help."

A bubbling noise made him look around. A strange black liquid had spilled out from the base of the pilot's chair, pooling around him in a near perfect circular puddle. But as the liquid recoiled from the far edge of the pool, it moved upward, latching onto his boots and pulling itself up. And that's when he realized it wasn't a spilled liquid at all.

"Nanoslime?!" he said aloud, trying to pull his foot back but the material moved with it.

"Of course. You should know, Maia. You installed the system before we went into battle."

Fuck. Nanoslime was only experimental when the Titan was operational. It wasn't in the specs! Trillions of tiny, self-replicating machines, all moving in unison with the BSD AI's directive: link to the pilot.

Quentin could feel it eat through the tough synthleather of his boots until it reached his skin, doing the same to his clothes when it reached them. He waited for the pain of a million mouths chewing through his flesh, but it merely glided with an unearthly chill up his legs instead, leaving it looking like smooth, glistening latex that adhered perfectly to his body's shape. The only hope he thought he might have was to override the AI via the BrainBox program, but as he reached for the emulator, he knocked it loose. It tumbled into the puddle. Before he could retrieve it, the black ooze slithered over its surface, consuming it, leaving only the dangling neural shunt connection.

"Connection lost," the AI said, "Initializing diagnostic program on pilot. Several alterations already detected. Height, skeletal structure, blood pressure, galvanic response, all abnormal."

"That's, fuck, that's just the surgery. There were some changes, but I don't mind them!" he shouted, reflexively working to pry the goop off his body. Instead, it spread to his fingers, where it multiplied and grew until it looked like he was wearing perfect, contouring gloves.

The nanoslime slid up his waist, the two legs joining together where they ought to, and the AI discovered another anomaly.

"Anomalous Bioform detected upon pilot's body," it said as the goo discovered his very real, very masculine genitals. "Assigning Temporary Designation AB_1. Confirm, is this yours, Maia?"

He nodded shakily; the BSD had him by the literal balls. "Uhh yep. Got that installed, please do not remove it, it is fine." What the hell was he going to do?

His concerns only heightened when he tried to stand and his legs didn't cooperate. The slime apparently had control over the parts that it had swallowed up, its surface hard and unyielding when he attempted to move without its consent. All he could do was sit there and wait while it crawled up his chest and arms, finally coming to a halt at his neck.

"Restoring original body parameters," the voice said, as calmly as one might order a food item. The slime bowed outwards in places, growing his hips and thighs until he looked positively feminine. His view became obscured when two nodules grew out from his chest. Breasts. He was growing breasts.

"Hey, is this really necessary?" he asked, "I mean, how do these help me pilot you?"

"Full-body synchronization is only possible when your physical form matches the synchronetic iodoform that I was programmed to link with. I can show you the accredited journal studies that document-"

"No, no, that's fine. I'm just worried that I might suffocate, or..." He struggled to find the words. The slime had covered him completely and was now replacing his body. Who's to say how far it would go? Would it eat him? Jack his body and use him like a puppet? His heart pounded, sweat beading from the skin still able to do so.

"Stress response detected. Administering endorphins."

Another spike of cold, but this time Quentin didn't feel like escaping. He didn't feel like going anywhere at all. His brain exploded into a firework display of positive emotions. Bliss, joy, relief, it all tumbled together like a whirlpool of positivity. A dreamy smile crept across his features, and he relaxed into the pilot chair. Though he noticed the changes continue, they were much less scary. They were simply...neat. An interesting series of events.

"This is...so weird..." he mumbled, looking down at the skintight bodysuit that now bulged in several directions. Most prominent was his cock. Between the press of the strange slime and the rush of endorphins, he was getting aroused. His bulge throbbed for attention, pushing against the skin-tight material. So dosed was he with foreign chemicals, he lacked the shame impulse to keep from playing with himself.

"Anomalous Bioform AB_1 reacting to stimulus," the voice said, and Quentin felt the tightness increase around his groin. He tried to feel for his anatomy, but it became obscured behind a thickening, formless bulge. "Is this anomaly giving you distress?"

"N-no no, it's fine, it's fine," he said, trying to touch himself again.

"Ah, a bio-mod for off-duty pleasure activity. Adding to your readout."

He poked the bulb again. "Can you, like, release the suit around here?"

"Unfortunately, it interferes with full-body synchronization. I am not designed to facilitate such extremities. The sync-skin can adjust to compensate, however."

He felt the strange material ripple around his lower half, then press down on his cock. It squeezed into as tight a shape as could be considered comfortable, then the bulge inverted. With detached fascination, he watched the suit form a charcoal gray facsimile of a vagina right around where it would normally be.

"Whoa...I got a pussy now?"

"If my interpretation of the colloquialism is correct, then yes, you do. It's linked to Bioform AB_1 via node networking. Sympathetic tactile responses should be identical."

He was too blissed out to understand what she was saying, but he was still curious. Touching the suit around his new anatomy felt almost identical to touching the skin beneath it. His hand drifted lower, brushing the very top of his 'clit'. Immediately, he clamped his thighs around his own hand, gasping for air. It felt like his dick's entire nerve endings had been compressed down into a single nub of synthetic flesh.

He lost his grip on all thoughts of the heist. Enraptured by these new sensations, he curled his fingers around, like he'd seen done by several female partners, and slid them inside himself. Incredible, impossible pleasures totally unlike what he was used to. He could feel his cock twitch underneath the surface, but at the same time his new synth organ felt just as real. It was like masturbating twice at the same time. He didn't hesitate, he kept going. And going. And twisting and shivering and clamping a hand around his own mouth to keep from moaning out like this was the best fucking sex he'd ever had in his life.

He came, hard. Quentin fell backward against the padded headrest, limbs feeling boneless. The pussy clenched in sympathetic timing with the waves of his orgasm, and beads of what could only be his own seed spilled out and drizzled onto his fingers. Tossed amidst the sea of ecstasy, he didn't notice that. He didn't notice his surroundings, or his AI captor. He was so caught up in the bliss, in fact, that he hadn't even noticed the neural shunt being slid into his neck port by the selfsame goo that had given him so much joy.

"Holy shit...being a girl rocks..." he said, catching his breath.

"Input not recognised. Neural scan records that pilot is female."

Quentin was a little hazy. The deception he'd been trying to run ran aground while his mind was in a pleasure-addled state. "I mean, well..."

"Pleasure reinforcement mechanism discovered, attempting neural reset." The slime bulged out around the pilot's seat, warping into a vaguely cylindrical bulb that took on a much more familiar shape as it grew.

"What are you- ah!" he cried out, body still sensitive to the touch. The bulb pressed against his pussy, teasing at the entrance.

"This pleasure is for Maia alone. So who are you, pilot?"

Quentin's voice caught. This was all a part of the plan, right? There was a plan...there had been, at least.

"Ah...yes. I'm Maia, your pilot."

The bulb slid in. He clenched his fists, voice unhindered by any worries about being caught any longer. Words, pictures started to flow into his mind. Were they thoughts? But they weren't his own. His eyes widened as he felt the back of his neck, noticing at last the neural shunt. But it was too late, the slime had already covered it. He was trapped in the link. A word pushed through the noise in his mind. Four letters, endlessly repeating.

He nodded reflexively. The slime didn't return. It still couldn't see him. He had to vocalize it.

"I'm Maia," he said, and it thrust. He did it again, and it thrust again. A simple call and response. More endorphins flooded his system. It became hard to think at all.

"You are a woman," it said, accompanied by more images and ideas. An identity loomed on the horizon, one that was not his own. He reached down to feel for his cock, but it wasn't there. Had he imagined it?

"I'm a woman?" he asked, or she did. Thoughts were so cluttered, but the pleasure of the slime-bulb between his legs was so clear. It pierced through the haze like a sword through a screen door. Maia found her clit again.

"The pilot Maia is a woman," the machine stated, and Maia couldn't wait to agree.

"I'm Maia," *thrust*, "and I'm, anh, I'm a fucking hot woman...oh god." It became a chant. A creed. Joy blossomed in the repetition, and more information slid effortlessly into her mind. Feelings now. Memories...ones that she couldn't recall...

"Warning: insufficient power to complete full restoration. Recalculating...recalculating..."

Dissonance. Discord. Two separate entities vying for the same space. It was all too much, too much! She felt herself losing consciousness, falling into a great void of sensation and memory.

"Solution found. Attempting cerebral dataloop."

That was the last thing she heard before her eyes fluttered closed.

***

But Quentin was not asleep. He was aware. What's more: he was himself. But the titanjacker was not in the waking world. He existed on a vast and formless plane, yet it held his feet like solid ground. He took a step, and his booted footfall echoed off a kaleidoscope of invisible walls.

"Hey, my clothes are back," he said, still a little confused. A vast nothing swept in every direction. "Still...could use a chair or something. Or a plant."