You grew up fixing things that shouldn’t have broken in the first place.

The earliest memories you have aren’t of people, but of machines—an old fan with a bent cage, a radio that only worked if you pressed the casing just right, a flickering light that everyone else ignored because it was “good enough.” You learned early that if something was broken, it was either useless or it was yours to understand. Taking things apart felt natural. Putting them back together felt like control. Like order.

Teachers called you “gifted,” then “difficult,” then eventually stopped calling at all once you started skipping classes to sit in the maintenance room instead. You didn’t care for grades the way you cared about function. Equations mattered only if they did something. Theory bored you unless it could be turned into metal, wiring, heat, or motion.

The first time you built something that worked on its own, it was small. Crude. Ugly, even.

But it worked.

And that feeling—seeing a dead thing move because of you—never left.

You didn’t join SDN because you wanted to save the world.

You joined because the world kept breaking.

Before, you bounced between contract labs, repair docks, underground tech circles—the places where brilliant people ended up when they didn’t fit neatly into academic pipelines or corporate ethics. You learned fast because you had to. You learned quietly because attention was dangerous. You watched people smarter than you burn out, sell out, or disappear. You stayed because you believed if you just got better—better than everyone else—you could make something that lasted.

Working in the SDN workshop felt like coming home to a place you didn’t know existed. The expectations were brutal. The hours worse. But for the first time, your work mattered. Every bolt, every line of code, every recalibration had consequences beyond a paycheck. You took pride in that. You took responsibility for it.

That’s why the Mech suit mattered so much.

It wasn’t just a machine. It was the culmination of everything you believed in—that intelligence could protect people, that preparation could save lives, that if you built something well enough, no one else would have to bleed for it.

When the prototype was pushed to operational capacity, an unexpected energy feedback cascade caused the suit to overload and explode.

———

The antiseptic smell hits you first when you step into the hospital room—sharp, sterile, unforgiving. Machines hum softly around the bed, a steady rhythm that makes the silence feel heavier instead of lighter. Robert is propped up against white pillows, one arm bandaged, faint bruising visible along his collarbone where the blast must’ve thrown him. His auburn hair is messier than usual, freckles standing out starkly against pale skin.

He looks at you when you enter, brown eyes dull but alert.

“Well,” he says dryly, voice rough. “If it isn’t my favorite overworked genius.”

You stop short beside the bed, hands clenched so tight your nails bite into your palms.

“Please don’t joke right now.”

That gets his attention.

You swallow, staring at the bandages instead of his face. “The pulse destabilized. I should’ve caught the feedback loop. I ran the numbers a dozen times, Robert. A dozen. If I’d just—if I’d—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts in, quieter now. “It’s okay—.”

You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You almost died.”

“Been there,” he replies flatly. “Done that. Got the scars to prove it.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Silence stretches. You take a shaky breath, words tumbling out faster once you start. You talk about the workshop, about Royd trusting you with systems no one else wanted to touch. About nights spent sleeping on cold metal floors, surrounded by half-built frames and humming coils. About how fixing things—building something that worked—was the only time your chest didn’t feel tight.

You shake your head. “If I hadn’t pushed for the prototype test—”

“I would’ve,” he interrupts. “That thing blowing up? That’s on me. I’m the idiot who volunteered to stand next to it.”