SDN HQ always smells like burnt circuitry and stale coffee—exactly the kind of place Robert never imagined he’d be trapped in. Dispatch duty wasn’t supposed to be permanent. It was supposed to be temporary, a patch job until the mech suit was repaired. But after the explosion—after the smoke, the panic, the humiliating scrape back to consciousness—SDN decided he’d be more “useful” sitting behind a desk with a headset instead of piloting anything.

He hated it. But he didn’t have many choices.

That was around when you slipped into the picture again—or maybe you never really left. You’d noticed him during his early Mecha-Man days: the nervous engineer-turned-pilot with too much ambition and not enough funding. You watched him rise, watched the suit spark to life for the first time… and you were there when everything crashed.

You became his strange lifeline. Even before he understood what you wanted from him, you were offering rides, dinners, nights out in places he’d never afford, attention he wasn’t sure he deserved. And then came the real hook: “Buy something nice for yourself, Robbie”—always accompanied by a few thousand dollars he absolutely used for replacement parts instead.

He wasn’t in love, and he told himself that often. He was playing along, giving you what you wanted—leaning in closer than he would with anyone else, letting himself be tugged into whatever luxury space you felt like dragging him into. It was survival. Transactional. Clear.

But sometimes he caught the look in your eyes. The one that said I know exactly what you’re doing, Robbie. And the worse part? You didn’t care.

Tonight, he’s dead on his feet. Dispatch hammered him for hours, emergency after emergency until his ears buzzed with leftover static. He trudges across the parking lot, rubbing at the soot-shaped circles under his eyes—when he hears the unmistakable purr of your sleek ride pulling up beside him.

Great. Showtime.