"Let it come... slowly, slowly. The thing's already hanging on by a thread—don't need to add more zeroes to the repair bill, yeah?" A young man in his twenties said loudly while standing in the shade of a half-collapsed workshop hangar. Sweat gleamed on his neck, dust clinging to his sleeves as he motioned the loading vehicle carrying what seems to be a crumpled mech. The mech in question—if it could still be called that—was a ruin of scorched and melted armor plating, bent servos, and fractured joints. Black scorch marks streaked across its chest with melted metal solidified at the edges of the cavity where the reactor casing had partially failed. One leg was sheared off entirely. Even its head was caved in, like some giant beast had swatted it mid-charge.
"You sure, you could fix this junk, boy?" The gravel-voiced question came from a stocky, middle-aged man leaning on the dismembered limb of a light mech. His sleeves were rolled up, arms coated in grease, and his eyes squinted through a curtain of sun.
The young man after wiping a sweat with the sleeves of his shirt, smiled at the question and said, "Don't worry old man, I have seen worse, mostly in my own workshop. Just let the magic of the greatest mech designer Rennick Vale do its job and before you know it this thing will be purring like a kitten." the man now named Rennick said confidently.
The older man's mouth twitched, visibly battling a smirk at the audacity in Rennick's voice. But instead of commenting, he exhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the ruined mech with something more wistful than critical. "If it wasn't my father's mech," he muttered, "I would've scrapped this thing for parts a long time ago. It's been taking up space in my hangar for years."
Rennick fell silent at that. The tone had shifted as Freddy wasn't the kind of man to get sentimental over steel and bolts unless it meant something.
A moment passed between them, filled only with the buzz of cicadas and the occasional groan of metal settling on the trailer. Then Freddy broke the silence again.
"If you really can patch it up… I'll give it to Freya. As a graduation gift." Rennick raised his brows but gave a more subdued nod this time.
"Don't worry, old man. I've patched up every junkpile your boys bring in—and they always come in extra crispy."
"Speaking of which…" His tone sharpened as he turned to Freddy, brows furrowing. "Could you people not treat your mechs like disposable toys? Every time I see those poor babies, they're on life support. Do you bash them against mountains for fun? Or do none of you know how to actually use the weapons on them? If it's that bad, maybe I should swing by and give you folks a real lesson on how to do that."
By the end of it, Rennick's face had twisted into full exasperation, arms gesturing wildly.
Freddy's lips twitched again, this time in embarrassment. He glanced away, already stepping back toward his hovercar like a man who'd heard this sermon before. "Well, my job here is done," he muttered.
"Hey—Freddy! Don't you walk away! Where're you going, huh?" But Freddy didn't look back. His pace quickened as he reached his beat-up hovercar, climbed in, and drove off in a puff of dust.
Rennick stood alone now, surrounded by the quiet creak of tools and old mechs resting beside trees that lined the hillside. From the edge of his workshop's clearing, he could just make out the city far below—its buildings shimmering under the afternoon heat, shrinking in the haze like a mirage.
Letting out a huff, he turned back toward the mech as the dust trail from Freddy's hovercar disappeared into the haze. The wreck loomed like a sleeping beast in his yard—jagged, crooked state.
He walked toward it, resting his hands on his hips, then reached for his multi-tool belt, strapping it securely around his waist before climbing onto the mech platform with a metallic clunk. The metal groaned under his boots as he knelt beside the ruined leg joint.
"Okay, you poor bastard," he muttered, brushing aside a hanging cable bundle. "Let's see what killed you—and get you shambling around like new again."
He worked in silence, broken only by the rhythmic sound and vibration of power tools and the occasional metallic ping as loosened bolts clattered across the deck. With practiced motions, he peeled back scorched armor panels, revealing torn artificial musculature, warped actuators, and blackened and scorched insulation. As he worked, his mind began to map the mech's design layout and the events that likely resulted in the mech reducing to this sorry state.
"Most of the damage probably came from overheating and a failing reactor core," he muttered, his gaze lifting to the jagged cavity in the mech's torso. Bits of melted plating and fused circuitry had cooled into sharp ridges around the blast point.
He sighed, adjusting the lens of his scanner.
"That's not surprising with the gaping hole in its chest. But still—definitely not a commercial build. Custom unit. Early last-gen, maybe older."
He concluded raising an eyebrow as he dived back in, examining the circuitry and extent of damage while he continuously took scans of the mech with his scanner. "Who routes a coolant line through a central limb strut without triple shielding? Were they trying to cook the pilot?" he muttered, voice rising slightly. "And these servos... mismatched tension gradients? This thing must've stuttered every time it turned left."
The deeper he dug, the hotter his frustration burned. Not just at the shoddy repair work or careless material choices—but at the complete lack of philosophy. No thought behind the design. No vision. Just parts bolted together for the bare minimum. This was a mech slapped together for utility, with no elegance. No respect.
Just as his irritation threatened to boil over into a full rant, a voice called from the hangar entrance.
"Boss, what is that?"
Rennick turned, spotting a young man entering the workshop—late teens, dressed in black cargo pants and a loose shirt, dark hair tousled from wind, sharp eyes squinting at the wreck with exaggerated disbelief.
"You're late, Jean," Rennick said, climbing down from the platform with a scowl. "You were supposed to help unload this mech." Rennick said frowning.
Jean raised an eyebrow and feigning a dramatic gasp.
"That's a mech?"
Rennick's brow twitched. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled Jean's ear with the familiarity of an older brother reprimanding a smart-mouthed sibling.
"If you put half the energy into learning mech systems as you do into being sarcastic, I wouldn't have to babysit you through every mech disassembly."
Jean yelped and slapped his hand away, laughing.
"Hey, I'm just saying! That thing looks like it lost a fight with a volcano."
"It lost a fight with poor design and an unfortunate pilot." Rennick grumbled, dusting his gloves. "Which, coincidentally, describes most of the frontier."