Sisters of Scrap fight forever [clap clap clap clap]

The sun shines through the destroyed roof of a room that was once a secure underground bunker, was once supposed to be the tomb of freedom, and now serves as the rec room for a group of freedom fighters that have dubbed themselves the Sisters of Scrap. Hellhounds lounge about a room covered in uncleared rubble and burn marks, a burnt out bonfire sitting in the middle of the room, declared the Unholy Land for their movement. The first place that Big Sis Victory’s paws touched in their world.

A Hound with fur of glimmering Gunfire and Flame of Clashing Steel idly picks bits of meat from between her teeth with a claw, entire pornographic body on display as she lays naked across the most comfortable piece of rubble she could find. A drooling animal that was once a corporate general whines as it nuzzles it’s fucktoy cheek against her thigh, staring at her sheath. It’s met with nothing more than a hind paw crunching into it’s face, which still elicits a moan and a furious, brainless worshiping with it’s tongue. Sister Clashing Steel just sneers.

Another, fur of Love and Flame of Joy, hums happily to herself as she flips cartoon sized hunks of meat over a grill that was once the front of a corporate vehicle, a jet engine beneath ripped out of a corporate aircraft just a few days ago. Her own body is clad in nothing more than an apron that says “Fuck the cook, if she’s blood related to you!” though her breasts and stomach, the most immense out of any of the sisters, stretch the letters well past the point of readability for mortal eyes.

Fur of glowing Plasma and Flame of Slag looks up from the guts of her machine, nose twitching at the smell of sizzling meat. “Sister Joy, you’re gonna make us as big as you are if you keep cooking like that!” she laughs, her flame sliding into every crevice of her cockpit, willing wires to meld back together, to form stronger bonds than they ever have before. Sister Joy just rolls her eyes and waggles her tongues at Sister Slag. “Then you’ll just have to pump me full of cum until I’m bigger than you again, silly!” she barks.

The final of the Sisters enjoying her “leisure” time today stands at a massive ten feet tall, still shorter than Sister Victory of course. Fur dripping with sweat and the color of Effort, Flame the color of Grit burning brightly at her shoulders as she counts off her push-ups. “One Hundred Thousand One… One Hundred Thousand Two...” she pants, long tongue lolled out of her mouth and lapping her own sizable puddle of sweat off the floor, to ensure it doesn’t stain for whichever of them next takes their leave here. She looks the opposite of Sister Love, muscles easily visible through even her thick coat of fur, looking like a monster that barely even needs a mech to rip through corporate scum. And if you asked her own little sister from before the Ignition, who is currently training to become a pilot herself at a different base of operations, she would tell you that she absolutely does NOT need the mech. It’s just more fun that way.

Standing over each of them like Titans are their respective mecha. They’re all still vaguely recognizable as originally hailing from this world, but their first climactic Ignition and further sorties have warped them into new shapes. Towering machines with spots and stripes of rust and dents that they wear as badges of honor, metal that clearly looks like it should be falling apart yet stands proud in defiance of the world itself. Even empty of their pilots the optics glow faintly as the four units keep their gazes turned to the sky.

And so the day stays like this, until the exact moment that Sister Joy is about to ring the dinner bell. Four sets of pointed ears perk up in unison, and four towering machines emit a low growl as their engines fire up of their own accord. “Reaaaalllyyyy?!” Sister Joy whines, massive stomach growling. “It’s fine, Sister Joy.” Sister Clashing Steel grumbles as she rises to her feet, kicking the brain dead fucktoy to the side in the process. “It’s just dessert delivering itself.” she mutters, cracking her neck. Sister Joy cheers at the promise of dessert as she throws her apron to the side, flame willing the jet engine grill off as she takes a single massive jump to land in the cockpit of her machine, blowing a kiss to her sisters that joined her in the air.

Four shining, golden, perfect Corporate machines touch down on the sands outside of the hole, jet wings folding shut on their back as they land. Three of them are perfectly identical and mute, and the fourth stands multiple stories taller than the others, adorned with massive medals that could have been used to fund care for the citizens instead of insipid corporate military achievement. “I am the unit Atlas, commander of Corporate Kill Squad Fifteen! Come out with your paws up, beasts!” a posh voice spits from speakers. “You may have had luck against our propaganda squads, but you will find that trained pilots are far beyond your capabilities!”

“Is there a reason you twats think we give a damn?” is the answer spat back at him as the first of the sisters rockets out of their refuge. “Don’t even got a name, just your machine’s? That’s not even the fun kind of brainwashing.” She barks, cockpit opening to reveal a middle finger before snapping back shut. ”I’m Sister Clashing Steel, pilot of the Procyon! And temporary acting Big Sister for the Sisters of Scrap.” The Procyon’s mouth snaps itself open, howling into the stars as Flame the color of Clashing Steel erupts from it’s mouth and wraps around metal limbs and torso.

The rest follow, slamming down in formation behind their Big Sister. “Sister Joy, pilot of the Gomeisa! You’re interrupting dinner, so you better taste good!” “Sister Slag, pilot of the Adhara! You’re keeping me from knocking more of Joy’s brains out with my cock!” “Sister Grit, pilot of the Wezen! … you weren’t really interrupting anything, but I’ll take any excuse to end a corporate bastard’s life!” Blades drawn, guns cocked. The two opposing sides stare each other down. “Flame of Victory wreathed around, get ready to beat them to the ground!” Sister Clashing Steel roars as the Hellhounds take the first move, metal tensing for just a moment before all four machines become shooting stars, slamming blade first into corporate shields that strain immediately under the impact.

Sensors roar, AI voices fall over themselves trying to keep up with the bestial assault. Corporate pilots brainwashed well beyond the need for the human emotion of fear simply tune them out, sticking to tactics and formations drilled into the parts of their brain that were supposed to hold a personality as their golden machines rocket across the landscape, metal that should be long dead snapping at their heels as the sisters chase them without rhyme or reason like a pack of wild animals.

All of their training has told them that such a thing should be easy to deal with. A few well placed shots to the joints rendering defiant metal inert, a blade slicing straight through the cockpit reducing a fool that believed in the lie of freedom to meat. Yet every time they turn from a target that should be down it roars until the foundations of the world tremble, metal and Flame refusing to stay dead and they nearly vomit from the Gs endured rocketing out of the way of another wild burst of gunfire.

Worst of all, every blow from these beasts that connects seems to burn that brainwashing away. Machine pinned to the ground, scrap metal fingers burning brightly as the head is turned into nothing more than slag. The head unit contains nothing but sensors. Deeply inconvenient to lose, but they are trained to simply utilize their thrusters to get away and then re-engage while relying on visuals. Instead, the pilot breaks down into audible tears. “Please! I don’t want to die! I just wanted to feed my family!” he sobs. Sister Slag glares down at him through her machine and growls as she finishes melting down the head of his machine. “Bastard dares to have humanity now… ah, fuck, guess it’s my fault.” she sighs, ripping the arms and legs off of his machine with a flick of metal wrists, tossing the torso across the battlefield until it skitters to a stop a dozen yards away from their sanctuary. “Stay there if you know what’s good for you, dickhead!” she spits before sprinting back into battle to support her sisters.

The rest of the battle follows much the same. Emotionless soldiers reduced to blubbering babes as feelings are burnt back into their souls, golden titanic symbols of their status reduced to nothing more than cradles that are thrown over shoulders with only enough care to not ruin the hound’s own unholy land. Their speakers crackle under the weight of their wails as the enormity of actions that were easily dismissed now hit them in the kneecaps.

Eventually the sun starts to set as the Atlas, gleaming metal covered in dirt and burn marks, grits his teeth and grips his controls tighter than ever. Surrounded by the Sisters of Scrap, feelings burning through his brain against his will… “Horrible, vile, disgusting fucking MONSTERS!” he spits, a rage that had long since boiled away suddenly filled to the brim again. “You think you’re doing the right thing!? You think people WANT to be free!?! Do you even know what this world was like before the Corporations took hold!?!” he screams, shoulders opening as an entire circus of missiles burst free all at once, scattering the beasts. Jet wings open and burn at full strength as he zeroes in on Sister Clashing Steel, forcing her to live up to her name as blades the size of buildings meet.

“Yeah, I do! I might not look it anymore, but I was one hell of an old geezer until Big Sis Victory showed up!” she responds through grit teeth as the screams of her sisters ring through her ears as they find themselves unable to avoid every missile, slamming into the ground, flames still burning but now repairing the damages far slower after repeated use. A roar forces her own flame to burst free, destroying every missile remaining in flight and throwing the Atlas back off of her.

“I remember when monsters and creatures beyond human understanding roamed the world and used them as cattle and playthings! I curled up in the smallest of crawl spaces and prayed not to be noticed! I remember cheering when the first machine hit the ground and turned a monster into a puddle of viscera!” she admits, gripping her control sticks tight enough that they crack audibly through her speakers. “But I found out that monsters within human understanding are even worse! At least back then, you would have just died or been turned into a toy! Being born just to suffer a slow death at the hands of the corporate world?! If you’ve got a Sisyphus kink, keep it to yourself!”

“THEN KEEP YOUR MONSTROUS KINK TO YOURSELF TOO, YOU VILE WHORE!” Atlas screams bloody murder, shooting forward at full burn again, tactics and corporate civility forgotten, only a desperate desire to feel the blood of that which he hates stain his hands remaining. His blade strikes true, slamming at full force straight through Sister Clashing Steel’s cockpit, reducing her fur and flesh to a splatter of meat. “And as for the rest of...” Atlas starts and then stops as metal fingers wrap around his machine’s neck and slam it into the sand.

“We’re not hounds of mere flesh… Clashing Steel isn’t just part of my existence, it defines it!” the disembodied voice roars not from speakers but from the flames burning around them, burning brightest around the fingers still gripping the Atlas’ neck. Impossibly strong for mere scrap metal, the gleaming gold of the Corporate world buckles and turns into ash as the head is ripped from the neck. The Procyon topples backwards and hits the sands with Sister Clashing Steel’s defiant act. Atlas tries to struggle back upright but is met with the incoherent roar of a trio of sisters descending upon it, scrap metal teeth digging into golden armor plates and burning them into void. Soon there is not even a cradle to hold the screaming and crying human being in the circle of beasts, begging for his life.

Moonlight shines through the destroyed roof of the Sister of Scrap’s vacation home. Sister Joy cheers with mirth as she picks up a hunk of meat bigger than her entire head and slams the entire thing into her mouth, paws slapping against distended cheeks as she covers the inside of her apron with cum at the taste. She chews for just a few moments before reaching back into her mouth and pulling out a bone barren of any meat, already looking like it’s bleached in the sands for years as she starts to chew on it, tail wagging behind her.

Sister Slag just laughs as her flame burns dimly through a recovered camera, tongue sticking out of her mouth as she wills it to start connecting to corporate television servers. Sister Grit fusses over the reformed body of Sister Clashing Steel, who waves a paw dismissively despite the fresh new scar that runs from shoulder to hip. Three corporate pilots sit on trembling knees, looking up at the camera as it comes to life, forcing the world to look at the weeping faces of pilots that are supposed to be the highest station the layperson can aspire to, to hear their practically incoherent apologies for the atrocities they’ve committed under the name of Corporate rule.

A figure the world has never seen before steps into frame behind them. Fur of Burden and Flame of blistering Rage. Massive paws slap down on the shoulders of the men as their apologies end, and that flame consumes them. Their skin and souls bubble and blister as they scream, a sound that becomes a chorus of moans as a trio of drooling fucktoys now rest on their knees, fingering freshly soaked pussies and trying to force lips far too plump to articulate anything to form the words to beg for cock. Sister Slag swears as the camera goes dead.

“You got the good parts out, at least.” Sister Clashing Steel says, patting Slag on the shoulder. “Now… let’s celebrate new family. Welcome to the cause, Sister Rage. You sure you’re going to be okay turning your former men into toys?” Sister Rage, mere hours ago known only by the name Atlas, simply shrugs, sending her immense tits and balls bouncing, leaving the fucktoys below her moaning and squirting at the sight, rubbing their cheeks against her sheath and lapping at it with slobber soaked tongues. “They were already broken. At least this way they’ll be happy, it’s the least I can do.”

“If you say so. Now hurry up and get something to eat, Sister Joy was promised dessert that you just turned into cocksleeves so she might just eat your portion.” Sister Clashing Steel says with a slap to her shoulder. Sister Joy whines at the implication, and also slowly puts the second massive slab of meat back down on the grill.

They’ve got a long way to go… but this will become a world that Big Sister Victory can return to. They each swear it, even those that have yet to meet her.