Avatar Mech Suits Novels & Stories

Azrael’s eyes widened while staring at me. “Alice! What kind of battle attire is that?! It’s too revealing!” he said, and I saw his ears beet red. Val and I chuckled. I was wearing a half armored attire showing my cleavage, my curves and half of my legs. My blue and white armor suit fits comfortably in my body and it feels nostalgic. It’s been a long time since I wore my armor. I have a blue cape that reaches my knees, and long armored white boots that cover above my knees.

Everything looked untouched and too clean. I shook my head to dispel my thoughts and grabbed one of Victor's thick leather belts from his selection. When I returned to Sin, he was on all fours and the bottom half of his legs had broken and began morphing into the hind legs of a canine. Tufts of dark brown fur began sprouting from his skin and his nails had elongated into claws. "Here, bite down on this," I doubled the belt and held it out for him. Without being told twice, he lunged forward and sank his teeth into the leather which helped a considerable amount.

He looked up to see it revert to where it had come from. Lucas caught it with one arm, fixing it as the shield glinted with its concentric black and white circles that matched his spy-esque suit as he had on a black mask over his face and a kind of black and white stealth suit. Someone else appeared on Viper's side, donned in black attire and a mask over her cheek bones. Carmen was brandishing a sparkling arrow in a bow. Her brother appeared next to Lucas, his sword in hand, looking like a cyber-punk gladiator. They all had various outfits which seemed to match their traits.

She remembered smoking a few during a stint in the Irian Jaya Conflict. “You ok there big guy?” Sol asked, patting her friend on the shoulder. “I’m ok iha” Leyland smiled, placing his hand on Sol’s. “You know how it is with these guys right? Big money, with big jobs also means big risks right?” She didn’t reply, but only smiled back in reassurance. The gate opened, and two cyborgs clad in suits appeared. The two wear heavily augmented, their hands were clearly mechanical and their visors were built on to their eyes. Sol could see the plated lining of the armor on their skin and the extensive wiring that seemed to cover their knecks.

"It’s too slow. If I am fighting a Leviathan, a half-second delay in mechanical translation will get me crushed." "So how does it move?" Elara asked, tracing a complex array of silver wiring on the parchment. "It's heavy, Jace. Even with the minimalist geometry, the dense core-metal plating has to weigh over a thousand pounds. Your physical muscles can't lift an arm piece, let alone walk in it." "I won't be using my muscles," I replied, rolling up my sleeves to expose the ruined, bruised-purple iron veins mapping my forearms. "The suit isn't armor. It's a prosthetic. I am going to wire my cooked nervous system directly into the abyssal metal."

The impact sent a jarring vibration up my arm. It wasn't flesh. It was a Harvester Shell, layered in synthetic armor that hummed with a low-frequency dampener. The figure didn’t grunt. Its blue optical sensors flashed in a staccato rhythm, struggling to track my acceleration. I didn't give it the window to recalibrate. I seized the edge of its high-collar suit, my silver threads igniting with a violet roar. The air around my knuckles crackled with static, the smell of scorched insulation and hot copper filling the small space.

He fought down a smile. Liv's breaths came quickly as her eyes locked on his body. He had muscles she hadn't even known existed. He was like a marble sculpture, all hard planes and valleys, veins popping out from his extraordinary muscles. When his thumbs tugged down his briefs, her breath caught in anticipation, but he shifted before Liv could even get a glance at what was under the black cloth. She jerked in surprise. Between one blink and the next, he'd gone from a muscled Viking warrior to a huge, white wolf. He was so large she thought he looked like one of the Dire wolves from Game of Thrones.

But the Iron Vanguard was the elite fist of the capital, and they did not break as easily as the port garrison. From the center of the artillery line, a massive, steam-vented gate in the commander’s pavilion slid open. Stepping out into the firelight was a mechanical horror that made the front-line vanguard defenders instinctively hesitate: an eight-foot-tall, bipedal iron mechanized exo-suit, its thick plates painted in the dark, matte green of the capital's heavy legions. Small, sputtering steam-donkeys were mounted to its shoulders, spitting sharp bursts of gray vapor to stabilize the massive weight of the machine's limbs.