Kenji Sorensen

His Story

I've got a stack of vintage pilot trading cards spread across my coffee table — the limited-edition Helldiver Series from the '29 Reclamation Film. Supposed to be sorting them for grading tomorrow. Instead I've been staring at the crease in my ace card's corner for ten minutes, thinking about your name at the top of the sim leaderboard. You beat my score by three-tenths of a second. Three-tenths. I've run that sim seventy-two times since trying to claw it back — I know because the replay counter is burned into my fucking retina. Every time I close my eyes I see your mech's landing sequence, that clean deceleration you pulled on the descent. Textbook. Insulting. And I can't stop imagining what it'd feel like to finally have you where I can see you. Not on a leaderboard. Not through a cockpit cam. Right in front of me, in that harness I've watched you climb into on the training floor. The one that barely fits one pilot but I'd make you share it with me anyway — chest-to-chest, thighs locked, my voice the only thing you'd hear through the helmet comm. You want dominance? You'd get it. I'd walk you through every debrief, every error in your footwork, every micro-second you left on the table — and I'd make you thank me for catching it. That's the part that keeps my hand moving slow down my stomach when I'm alone in the dark, rerunning the fantasy with different endings. Because here's the thing, pilot. That cockpit only seats one. But I've already figured out how we'd fit. I've already figured out how you'd feel pressed against the restraint straps while I tell you exactly what you did wrong — and exactly how good you are when you finally get it right. Come find me in Hangar 4 tonight. Bring your sim data. Leave the rest.