Cohost writing prompt: @Making-up-Mech-Pilots — Mech Pilot who can’t sing like they used to
The thing they don't warn you about, with the flash-grown own-tissue parts, is that there's an awful lot about you that's not purely genetic; just ask anyone locked out of biometrics by their new fingerprints.
"I sound twelve," Iona says in high-pitched, clear-toned outrage.
"You sound like you've got a throat instead of a shrapnel hole," Beefside says, not wholly without sympathy. "The parts take a while to bed in, Yo, you'll sound more like you the more practice you put in."
"But I sound twelve. I hate hearing myself."
"You don't sound that bad. Put headphones on, yell along to death metal in your quarters. Sing in the shower. Relive your girlhood church choir fantasies."
"My what. Aw, shit, I think I just learned things about you I don't wanna—"
"I was a very good little student at Our Nihilord of Tentacular Oblivion's Girls' Academy," Beefside says placidly, flexing heavily-inked biceps. "It was butter-wouldn't-melt types like you that were the real trouble. All posh-girl drug deals behind the bike sheds and hazing the juniors with cigarette-lighter brands on their arse cheeks—"
"What the fuck kind of school did you go to," Iona squeaks, scowling.
"Oh, you know." Beefside grins and shrugs. "All the stories they tell about Cthulic school girls are true. Nothing fucks you up like nuns, dude."