"Now, go grab your multi-tool belt and start dismantling its armor." Rennick said, giving Jean a light push on the back.
"Yes, boss," Jean grumbled, stretching as he trudged toward the wreck. "Though calling that twisted wreck 'armor' feels generous."
Rennick didn't glance up from his terminal as he replied, "That's a poorly designed early-generation mech for you. Compare the durability of these old shells against modern firepower, and you get molten scrap. Add to that the fact it was built out here—designed with frontier constraints in mind, using only locally sourced or neighbouring state components. That makes it even more of a miracle it lasted this long." Rennick said looking at the data from his terminal.
Jean paused mid-step, eyes wide. "Wait—are you saying this thing was one of the first mech made here? In the Arboreal Protectorate?"
"Technically, yes. But don't go getting patriotic," Rennick said flatly. "It wasn't a commercial build. Likely a one-off or an internal commission."
He tapped a few keys, examining scan overlays of the mech on the terminal. "Now stop chattering and get to work."
Jean rolled his eyes and returned with a handheld cutter, flipping the activation switch. The blade lit up with a low hum. "Where do I start?"
"Begin with the lower torso plates on the left flank," Rennick instructed without looking. "Work around the actuator clusters and the burnt circuitry — not through them. If you slice through any live wiring, I'm docking your pay and making you clean the engine coolant by hand."
Jean groaned but got to work, the cutter hissing as it sliced through the blackened plating with a low electric whine.
Rennick stepped beside him, arms folded, eyes watching closely. His lips were drawn into a thin line, but he didn't speak. He didn't have to. Jean knew the rhythm by now. For a few minutes, the workshop was filled with nothing but the sounds of labour—buzzing tools, clinking bolts, and the distant song of cicadas drifting in from the hillside trees.
How many years has it been now… since I woke up in this world? Nineteen? Twenty?
When I realized where I was—remembering flashes of the novel, the mechs, Ves—I thought I'd found my calling. My shot. Design mechs like the ones I read about. Leave my mark.
But now? Look at me. A glorified mechanic scraping through repair jobs, piecing together leftovers. I call myself a 'designer' but... what have I actually designed?
Rennick's gaze shifted to the charred mech again. A rusting symbol of forgotten ambitions.
Scavenger. Tutor. Patchwork specialist. Not a real designer. Not yet.
Jean glanced up from his work. "You spacing out again, boss?"
Rennick blinked, then gave a short shake of the head. "No. Just thinking about how much better this thing's going to look once I'm done making you tear it apart."
Jean said, eyes twitching as he continued working on the mech, "You're not seriously planning to make me tear down this whole thing by myself… are you?"
Rennick snorted, the smirk tugging at his lips unmistakable. "Not the whole thing—just the outer armor and some of the peripheral systems. The internal structure needs to be examined properly to identify what materials were used."
Jean lifted his face shield and shot him a look. "For what? This thing's already scrap. Wouldn't it be smarter to just gut it and drop in newer-gen components? We're gonna have to replace the power reactor anyway."
"Maybe," Rennick replied, folding his arms. "But remember—we're not just repairing mechs here. We're here to learn. Every part we salvage, every system we map, teaches us something. Especially the failures and the design philosophy of the designers behind these mechs. The more we understand the design philosophy behind these mechs and why these old mechs broke down, the better chance we have at designing something that won't."
Rennick folded his arms, eyes narrowing slightly. "I didn't graduate from a prestigious design school, just a third-rate design college of state even though it is one of the top design schools in Arboreal Protectorate. No mentorships, no funding, and barely enough credits to keep the lights on. What we do have is scrap and time. Picking these wrecks apart isn't just about saving costs—it's how we learn what works and what fails, so when we finally design our first real mech, it won't fall apart the moment it sees combat."
Jean grumbled, "Yeah, well… at this rate, we'll finish our first original mech when we've got one foot in the grave. This is, what, our Seventeenth salvage project?"
"Eighteenth," Rennick corrected, glancing sideways. "And this one? It's in worse shape than any we've tackled so far."
Jean paused, then grinned. "So, we're finally getting close?"
"Closer than ever," Rennick said, a flicker of quiet determination in his voice.
That was all Jean needed. He cracked his knuckles, flipped his face shield back down, and revved the cutter. "Alright, then. What are we waiting for? Let's rip this old corpse apart."
The sun had dipped lower now, casting long shadows through the broken roof. Sweat gathered on the back of Rennick's neck. Sparks bloomed from the cutter in bursts of orange and white, as Jean sliced into the next layer of scorched armor—peeling back the armor, one plate at a time.
Two hours after the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky darkened into a canvas of deep blue, lit only by the planet's pale moon, Lilia, and the scattered brilliance of distant stars. Inside the hillside workshop, Jean collapsed onto the old couch beside the central terminal, drenched in sweat that glistened under the cold white lumen strips.
"Man, that took way longer than I expected," he groaned, dragging in a deep breath and throwing his head back to stare out the narrow window.
"It wouldn't have, if you didn't botch the chest cut." Rennick said prying open the broken cockpit.
"Don't blame me, the armor plating had melted along with the power reactor. This is the first time, I have seen it happen to this extent. The reactor has practically melted off." Jean said watching Rennick as he brought out a battery to connect to the cockpit.
"Yeah, although the power reactor installed in this mech was barely stable, Freddy did say it got to this state while battling a current generation Rifleman mech, with enough lasers and the type of ballistic armor plating used in this mech, no wonder it got to this state." Rennick said as he connected the power source to the cockpit and opened the hatch to get inside with his scanner.
"Well, I am going to get something to eat, what do you want to have?" Jean said wiping his sweat with a towel.
Rennick looked up, raising an eyebrow. "We still have nutrient paste in storage. Eat that."
Jean let out a dramatic whine. "Boss, seriously? I know you can stomach that stuff because your taste buds are still in beta, but I can't. I worked like hell today—cut me some slack!"
Rennick shook his head with amusement. "Fine. Get me whatever you're getting."
"Ok!" Jean grinned, tossing the towel over his shoulder and heading for the exit.
Left alone with the broken machine, Rennick returned to cleaning out the grime caked across the cockpit's interior. As his light swept over the panels, it caught a faint glint—something half-buried in soot and corrosion. Curious, he reached out and rubbed at it with the sleeve of his shirt.
An identification plate, half-scorched but still legible, emerged beneath the grime:
MODEL: WESTHAVEN GUARDIAN
Production Date: 3373 – Port Halis Foundry