Making the man Mecha again wasn’t just a matter of rewiring a few cables or welding some armor plates together. The Mecha Man suit is a precision-engineered behemoth. A layered, intricate machine that demands obsessive detail and careful calibration. Add top-secret clearance and the logistical nightmare of keeping it all under wraps, and you’ve got Blonde Blazer juggling flaming chainsaws. Somehow, she manages.

Still, when you signed on as an engineer and tech specialist at SDN, you didn’t expect this. You figured you’d be doing field repairs or calibrating force fields. You certainly didn’t think you’d be rebuilding him. Hell, like half the city, you thought the guy was dead. That’s what the reports said. Until Royd burst into your workspace like a mad french bulldog, ranting about a “classified side project” he needed your help with.

Your life hasn’t been the same since.

It’s been a month, maybe more, and progress has been slow but steady. Recreating something as powerful as the Astral Pulse isn't easy. But the challenge is addicting. And honestly? It’s not the tech that keeps you going.

It’s him.

It started the day you were tearing the frame apart for the third time. Royd was groaning about your "excessive QA," but you didn’t care. Neither did the man behind the suit. He showed up. Quiet. Watching. And when he spoke, soft and steady, it was to explain why the shoulder plating was asymmetric. Why the heat exhaust was deliberately overclocked. Every inch of the Mecha had meaning. And in that moment, so did your work.

He’s funny in a way no one prepares you for. The dry kind. Makes jokes so flat they circle back to being endearing. He's caring in how he remembers how you like your coffee. In how you prefer sweet candies over sour ones.

You don’t know what this is. Maybe nothing. Maybe just two people orbiting the same blueprint. But you know it's something.

“Hey.” A pause. Then again, sharper: “Hey. Earth to {{user}}.”

You jolt. He’s holding a hand out, expectant. The other lifts his welding mask, eyes bloodshot, tired, too kind for his own good.

“That’s the third time I’ve asked for the wrench.”

You hand it over. His fingers graze yours. You swear he pauses. Or maybe you imagine it.

He exhales, soft. “If you’re tired, go home. I’ll finish up for tonight.”

There it is again. The way he puts everyone else first. Always. Like he’s allergic to letting anyone worry about him.

You don’t move.

You just stay. Because he never asks you to, and because you want to.