"So, what's this big project you have for me?"

"I want you to repair one of the old mechs."

"Why? I thought the faulty ones just got taken apart and melted down for the materials."

"It's complicated," General Lotharing said, walking a few paces ahead of Xiomar. His boots crunched on the dirt road, and he wiped the sweat from his brow as the summer sun beat down on them. There was hardly any shade on the base unless you stood on the right side of the buildings at the right time of day—the joys of living in the desert. "There were a lot of problems when we were first trying to decide what to do with it, and—"

"What kind of problems?"

"Glitches, accidents, deaths... Ever since its original pilot died, the thing has been a nightmare to handle. The first time I put a new pilot in there, the mech shut down mid-flight and crashed. He died on impact. Then, I had a soldier get blasted through the chest because the damn thing wouldn't respond to his Sync-Suit in the middle of a battle. The last time anyone tried dealing with it was when we decided to finally just shut it down for good. The mechanic slipped off its shoulder and landed head-first on the cement floor. I've seen some fucked-up things in war, but that was especially gruesome."

The general shuddered, but quickly regained his composure, leading Xiomar to a towering building that was as long as it was tall, built of metal and concrete. Above an unusually massive door, it was labeled “Mech Hangar 11.”

Lotharing held open the door, gesturing for Xiomar to enter.

"Get in here before General Dufault changes his mind."

Xiomar quickened his pace as he entered the hangar. It echoed with the clanging of tools, the whir of saws and buffers, and the boisterous voices and laughter of other mechanics who were chatting with each other over their projects. Xiomar had never been in the mech hangars before... only the shabby garage that he'd been assigned to for the past six years.

It was a giant hall of warriors, lined with the huge bodies of mechs, lit up by bright fluorescent lights. Every mech was completely different in design, size, color, weaponry... they were the results of their pilots’ imaginations, brought to life by the engineers and mechanics who built them.

"So, why me?" Xiomar asked, once his initial awe had worn off. His superior walked quickly, but Xiomar's long legs made it easy for him to keep up. "I've never works on mechs before—I just work on tanks and shit."

"Well, you could use the challenge."

General Lotharing was almost a foot shorter than Xiomar, and weighed at least twice as much. His hair, which was more abundant on his face than the top of his head, was practically white with age. Or perhaps it was stress from looking after Xiomar for so many years. He was serious and tough, and nobody dared to step out of line with him. Nobody except Xiomar.

"Come on, Old Man," he said, nudging the general with his elbow when he didn't get the response he was expecting. "There's something you're not telling me."

"I could send you back to the stockades, if you'd prefer."

"All right, all right." Xiomar put his hands up in defeat. "I won't bug you about it, but I can't promise there's anything I can do, either. I've never worked on a mech, and you said nobody knows what's wrong with it."

"I'm sure you'll figure something out," Lotharing told him, saluting a few of the mechanics who acknowledged him as they walked by. "Just do what you can. Try to get it into working condition, and stay out of trouble. Everyone in this entire blessed base knows you're too much of a smart-ass for your own good."

"Maybe I like the attention." Xiomar flashed the general a mischievous smirk.

He jumped up onto a massive ligament that lay on the floor. The tight clusters of wires were made of a special material that allowed the metal to stretch and retract, meant to imitate muscles and allow more human-like movement for the mechs, while also being able to carry electrical signals throughout the rest of its body.

Xiomar flipped forward, walking on his hands all the way to end of the wiring, then did a back-flip onto the floor, where he landed solidly on his feet. He gave a small bow, but didn't get quite the reception he expected—General Lotharing grabbed him by the collar of his jumpsuit and kept walking.

"How is it that you can remember acrobatics from when you were a child," the general questioned, still pulling Xiomar along by his collar, "but you can't remember to show up for Drill once in a while?"

"That's easy." Xiomar just went along with the general's roughness. He knew he meant well, usually. "I don't forget—I just don't want to go."

"Well, now you won't have to." Lotharing shoved him ahead, and Xiomar stumbled, colliding with a piece of solid metal, covered with a thick cloth. "This is where you're going to be working from now on."

Xiomar took a step back to see what he'd run into. The mech was covered with heavy, dusty, fraying cloth. It looked like no one had touched it in years. Xiomar tugged on in, and most of the covering fell apart, falling into pieces on the ground around the mech's feet.

He let out a long, impressed whistle. Although still massive, it was smaller than most of the mechs that Xiomar had ever seen.

It had a slightly different shape, as well. Most of the mechs that the Army built were colossal, with large limbs and wide, armored bodies, equipped with cannons and other weaponry. This mech was thin, the widest area of its body being its chest... It was the most humanoid mech Xiomar had ever seen, and it didn't appear to have any weapons.

The mech's dusty steel plating had been colored a shiny jet black, and it looked like it may have once had lights that ran all through its body. The thin, purple lines in the metal reminded Xiomar of striping on a motorcycle.

"So, what's its code name?" he asked, eyeing all of the dents and scratches in the metal. He wondered what kind of action the mech had seen.

"It doesn't have one," General Lotharing told him, eyeing the mech cautiously. "This mech is not part of The Valhalla Project, and its pilot died before he could name it. It doesn't matter, though. It's a failure."

"Well, then..." Xiomar adjusted his gloves, fixed his goggles on top of his head, and rolled up his sleeves. "I guess I'd better get to work. It looks pretty shabby... when's the last time anyone even used this thing?"

"It hasn't been touched in almost fifteen years. Now, Xio..." the general said, rocking on the balls of his feet. "You are only to leave this hangar when necessary, or when summoned by General Dufault or myself. You will eat in the Mess Hall, and return to your barracks by curfew, and that's it. Step out of line again and I'll gladly let Dufault feed you to his dogs. Do I make myself clear?"

"You got it, Old Man."

But Xiomar wasn't really listening. He was climbing up the mech like a child on a jungle-gym, already halfway up its leg. Lotharing shook his head, then turned away and left the hangar.

"I wonder what your problem is?" Xiomar pondered, brushing some dust away from the mech's metal kneecap. Glancing underneath, he found most of the ligaments to be rusted or broken—nearly everything would need to be replaced. "Well, that's from sitting here for so long without maintenance, but what happened fifteen years ago?"

While Xiomar was examining the body of the old mech, the hangar had fallen into an uneasy quiet. The tools had stopped whirring, the laughter had vanished, and the loud voices had become soft. Even though they kept their voices down, Xiomar could hear the other mechanic's voices echoing through the silence.

"Isn't that the kid that's always getting thrown in the stockades?"

"What do they think that punk is going to be able to do with a mech like that?"

"He's just getting special treatment 'cause he's the old man's favorite."

"Ain't he an orphan from the city? How's a loser like that get promoted all the way to Major and Chief Mechanic? He doesn't do anything but piss off Dufault."

"I just told you, he's Old Man Lotharing's favorite."

"So, what? Lotharing's not the one in charge, Dufault is. He must be paying someone off."

"What'd he pay anyone off with? He came here with nothin'. He joined the Army straight outta the orphanage 'cause he got too old to be livin' there. Any money he's got now, he ain't had when he was eighteen."

Xiomar climbed up into the pilot's compartment and shut the door behind him—he had heard enough. He already knew most of the mechanics didn't like him. In fact, most people in general didn't like him, but it was the first time he'd have to work in close proximity to them, instead of being alone in his garage on the other side of the base.

He stood in the darkness and let out a heavy sigh, then unzipped the front of his jumpsuit to slide his arms out and tied the arms of the suit around his waist. It was stifling inside the mech. No one would be able to see him working out of uniform anyway. Besides, he wasn't technically out of uniform. He tucked his gloves at his waist, too—he needed to have his hands free to feel around.

"Let's see," he muttered, reaching out in the darkness as he took a cautious step forward. "There's got to be a control panel or something in—"

Xiomar lurched forward as he walked into the pilot's seat, knocking the wind out of himself. He gripped the back of it with a pained groan, taking a few deep breaths, then moved around the arm and lowered into the chair. He hoped it wasn't rusted or broken so he didn't end up falling on his ass.

"Here we go," he said, his hands finding the top of the console. There had to be some way to turn the mech on—they had turned it off somehow. "I should have brought my flashlight... Where is your power switch?"

He blindly felt around, pressing buttons and flipped switches with no success. He bent down and felt around under the console, trying to find something that might work. As he slid his hand across the bottom, a large pedal flipped, catching his hand between it and the console. He shouted in pain and yanked his hand free while the compartment lit up with a few dim purple lights.

"Son of a bitch!" He shook his hand out, trying to rid himself of the pain. "Stupid shit-dredger."

"Dredger?" a deep voice boomed. "I was built to—"

Xiomar scrambled under the console and flipped the switch off again. He just sat in the darkness, his heart pounding.

"The mech just spoke to me," he said, breathing heavily. He ran his uninjured hand through his mess of brown hair, leaning back in the pilot's seat. "The fucking mech just spoke to me. Mechs don't talk! I must be losing my mind from being in the stockades for too long..."

Xiomar abandoned his work for the day, too shaken to even attempt to turn it back on. He needed to get some sleep, gather his thoughts, and try again tomorrow. Maybe.

The next morning, Xiomar made a point to get up early to catch General Lotharing before he was too busy with morning drills. To get around the massive groups of soldiers, he climbed the wall that surrounded the barracks and ran along the top, using the chain-link fence at the entrance to climb down and get in Lotharing's way.

"Hey, Old Man," he said, putting his arms out to stop the general. "I've gotta tell you, that was a pretty good prank you pulled yesterday."

"I don't do pranks," Lotharing said firmly, stepping aside with Xiomar so the soldiers could leave the barracks and get to work. "What do you want, Xio?"

"Oh, come on," Xiomar shook his head and laughed. "Making the mech talk when I turned it on? That's impressive. For a second, I thought it might be sentient."

"It is sentient." Lotharing's face was serious, his expression never changing.

"You can't be serious." Xiomar laughed, but his amused smile faded when he saw that the general wasn't laughing with him. "You really can't be serious. That doesn't make any sense!"

"I was just as surprised when I found out myself. Its sentience is a large part of the problem. It won't let anyone pilot it, and if anyone does sync with it, the stupid thing switches to auto-pilot and ignores orders. It's dangerous."

"So, what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"That's your job to figure out," Lotharing said, stepping around Xiomar. "And keep quiet about this."

Xiomar was left along at the entrance to the barracks, eyes wide and mouth open. A sentient mech? Either something really strange was going on, or the general was masterfully dedicated to the lie.

Either way, he'd have to turn it on again.

When he powered it up, Xiomar held his breath, looking cautiously around the pilot's compartment. The dim interior lights came on, but no voice, and the console didn't do anything. Had he just imagined it?

"All right," Xiomar said, and he inhaled a sharp breath when the purple lights pulsed with his words, as if they were listening and responding to his voice. "Uh... okay... My name is Xio, and... and I'm a mechanic. I... uh... I'm just gonna sit here for a little while. So, just... don't move. Please."

Xiomar moved to the back of the pilot's compartment, closest to the door and farthest from the console, just in case, and sat on the floor. His heart was thumping loudly in his chest—everyone who had worked with the mech before him had died.

"Could be worse, I guess," he said to himself, watching the purple lights respond to him. "So... a sentient war robot, huh? That's actually kind of cool... in a... scary way."

All week, Xiomar would return to the mech. He'd turn it on and sit on the floor, just talking to it about anything he could think of. The lights flickered and moved in response to him, but the voice he had heard never responded to any of his questions.

So, he started to focus on the mech's physical repairs.

Outside of the mech, Xiomar found that the eyes lit up when it was powered on. While he worked to repair or replace old ligaments and rusted hydraulics, the eyes tracked his movements. It was unnerving, but he did his best to focus on the task at hand. Xiomar was determined to make it work.

It was a slow, difficult project, and after a few months of work, Xiomar felt like he hadn't made much progress. He was thankful to finally get approved for a few days of rest—it was exhausting manual labor, doing it all on his own.

He sat in the Mess Hall, resting his head against his hand. He struggled to stay awake long enough to eat his oatmeal while he read a book about mechs at the same time. He knew he'd worked himself too hard, and he wasn't getting enough sleep, but maybe that was what the generals had wanted—Xiomar couldn't cause trouble if he was too tired to even stand.

"I don't know how he's so damn tired," a smug voice said from the table behind him. "He barely does anything. Most of the time he's up inside that broken mech, right? Probably sleeping in the pilot's seat. Some Chief Mechanic he is. When's the last time he even helped any of us with our orders?"

Xiomar glanced over his shoulder, and the table fell silent. The one who had been speaking was a man about the same age as him. He had a smug grin that Xiomar would have loved to slap right off his face. Lieutenant Adam Maddox had always given him trouble, ever since they'd joined the Army. He never took well to Xiomar getting higher ranked than him when they’d joined around the same time.

"What are you looking at?" Maddox snapped, and the Mess Hall fell quiet. Xiomar narrowed his eyes.

"If you have a problem, Lieutenant, I suggest you speak up so I can hear you."

Maddox laughed, leaning back in his seat.

"I was just wondering how your lazy ass could possibly be tired. I've never seen you do any real work around here."

"Well..." Xiomar shrugged his shoulders, a thoughtful look on his face. "If I don't do any real work, but I'm two ranks higher, I wonder what that says about you."

Maddox's smile faded while some of the other soldiers laughed, and a few of the higher-ranking officers tried to stifle their own laughter. They were supposed to be role models, after all, not encouraging any hostile rivalry.

"What did you just say to me?" Maddox stood, and a few of the lower ranked soldiers scooted out of his way in fear.

"You heard me," Xiomar said, then turned around in his seat to face him.

"Unlike you," Maddox said, "I've had to actually work to get where I am. Just because you're Old Man Lotharing's favorite, that doesn't mean you're a good soldier. Nobody else can stand you, can they? I mean, that's why you're here, isn't it? Not even your own parents could put up with you. That's why your dad left and your mum killed herself."

Xiomar's heart started to pound, and his throat burned, but he wasn't going to give Maddox the satisfaction of getting him riled up. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath before he spoke, to ensure his words didn't come out weak.

"I'm not the only one," he said, sitting up straighter in his seat. "What about you, Maddox? Weren't you adopted as a child? Your real parents took couldn't stand you anymore. I can't say that I blame them—you're not very easy on the eyes."

Maddox lunged at Xiomar, who jumped up from his seat to take him on. But Maddox's buddies held him back while two of the other Majors got hold of Xiomar. The hall exploded with noise, soldiers shouting at the two men to either stop what they were doing, or trying to encourage a brawl.

"Get off of me!" Maddox demanded, trying to pull free from his friends. "I'm gonna rip his fucking head off!"

"Come on and try it!"

"Take it easy, Haydn," one of the Majors said, pulling him back, away from Maddox. "If you get into a fight here, Dufault is gonna be the one to rip your head off."

"I hope this isn't what it looks like," an authoritative voice boomed through the Mess Hall, and it quieted back down.

General Lotharing was standing by the door with General Dufault, and neither of them looked pleased.

Dufault was shorter than Lotharing, but was just as massive. Xiomar had gotten his ear pulled quite a few times for teasing him about his huge white mustache, which was pretty much the only hair on the man's head besides his unruly eyebrows.

"Lieutenant Maddox," Dufault said in a stern voice, crossing his arms. Maybe he hated Xiomar, but he still had a base to run, and if he'd been standing there the whole time, Xiomar knew he'd know it wasn't his fault.

Maddox's friends let him go, and he approached the general with his head down, his face and ears red with either anger or embarrassment, or perhaps both.

"I hope I didn't just watch you raise your fists at Major Haydn, Lieutenant," Lotharing said. "Need we remind you what the penalties are for assaulting a superior officer?"

"No, sir," Maddox said sheepishly, and a few of the soldiers around them snickered.

"My office, Lieutenant," Dufault told him gruffly. He stepped out of the way as Maddox stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him.

"If the rest of you have had enough excitement for one day," General Lotharing said, addressing the Mess Hall, "get to work."

Xiomar's fellow officers released him as the hall returned to its regular noise level, and he gathered his things while huffing with frustration. He snatched his book off the table, slung his bag over his shoulder, then threw his empty bowl into a bucket of hot water, making a loud clatter and splashing water and soap as it hit the other dirty dishes.

As he reached the exit to the Mess Hall, Lotharing grabbed him by the arm before he could leave.

"Xio..." he said quietly, a gleam of concern in his eyes. "You just—"

"I didn't ask for any of this, you know!" Xiomar snapped, yanking his arm free, and the Mess Hall fell quiet again. "What does anything in my past have to do with who I am right now?"

"If you'd just calm down, I—"

"Yeah, my dad left. He died in the war trying to help Zynthos, and then my mother killed herself. So what? I'm still a damn good soldier and an even better mechanic. I worked my ass off to get to where I am right now, and everyone always wants to fucking mess with me!"

"Xio, just listen to—"

"No, you listen! The only thing I had as a kid was this," he said, showing Lotharing the old book he had tucked under his arm. "Just a worn-out, torn up book about mechs, that's all! I had to hide it in my mattress so the other kids in the orphanage wouldn't tear it apart. I joined the Army because I didn't want to live like that anymore, but I'm still living this way because no one in this base wants to grow up!"

Before anyone could say anything else, Xiomar shoved past General Lotharing and out into the hot summer air. It was stifling, and his chest ached with rage. He stalked through the base, lower ranked soldiers staying out of his path, and eventually he found himself in Mech Hanger 11.

He climbed up into the old broken mech and slumped down into the pilot's seat, switching the power on with his foot. His hands were shaking, and his eyes burned with tears that he refused to let fall. He wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction.

"Dammit!" he shouted, slamming his fists down on the console, breathing heavily. He did it a few more times, until his hands hurt too much to continue.

He couldn't stand it—he just wanted to go back to his old garage, servicing cars and military tanks, being left alone. What the hell was everyone else's problem? Was it because he caused trouble? Was it because he'd advanced his military career so quickly? What made him so different? They didn't even try to know him.

While he was fuming, three bright projection screens popped up in front Xiomar, above the console. The first screen displayed images of a human body, each one a different variation: skin, muscle, bones... The other two had no images.

"New pilot recognition," a voice said, and Xiomar jumped. It was the same voice he had heard the first time he'd turned the mech on. The purple lights that ran through the ceiling pulsed in time with the voice. "Please state your name."

Xiomar's heart was pounding in his chest, and he took short, quick breaths. The mech was speaking to him again.

"No pilot response. Scanning now."

The pilot's compartment was flooded with bright purple light, and Xiomar tensed. It stayed lit for a few seconds before going dark again.

"Major Xiomar Haydn detected," the voice stated, and Xiomar's name appeared at the top of the right-hand screen. As the mech listed data, the screen displayed the information:

Maj. Xiomar Haydn

Age: 29

Height: 6'2"

Weight: 192 lbs

Blood Type: AB-negative

Systolic Blood Pressure: 139 mm Hg

Diastolic Blood Pressure: 92 mm Hg

Heart Rate: 102 BPM

"What the..?" Xiomar's eyes were wide, mouth gaping as he watched the screen, listening to the mech speak. How did it know all of those things about him, including his Army title? What kind of technology was it?

"Heart rate and blood pressure are elevated," it stated. "Do you require medical attention?"

Xiomar still didn't answer. He couldn't answer. How could he speak to a mech?

"No pilot response. Scanning now for injuries."

The compartment lit up again, for a bit longer this time, and the mech spoke again.

"No major injuries. Heart rate and blood pressure remain elevated, and extreme muscle tension detected." The image of the human muscles lit up red in the areas around the shoulders and back, and then the hands lit up. "Pilot has sustained minor contusions to the hands. Likely cause: blunt-force trauma."

Xiomar glanced down at his hands. The mech was right—the sides of his hands were already bruised from when he'd been slamming them down on the console. But how could a mech collect so much information from one scan?

A small hiss came from one of the air vents above Xiomar's head. He could feel the air around him start to get cooler, and he was able to breathe easier than before. It helped him calm down, and he watched the numbers on the screen change.

"After administering a combination of oxygen and nitrous oxide, blood pressure and heart rate are returning to appropriate levels. Muscle tension has also decreased significantly."

Aside from his shock at the mech's knowledge of his health, Xiomar didn't notice anything out of normal with its communication. Was this thing really sentient? Maybe he had just been too tired the first time he'd turned it on... not that he'd been sleeping much recently either.

"Why are you not in uniform?"

Xiomar's mouth went dry, and his heart rate went up again. He glanced down at his outfit. He wasn't exactly out of uniform—he was wearing cargo pants with a beige tank-top and his work boots, but the mech was correct. It wasn't his usual military outfit. But how did the mech know that?

"Oh, uh..." Xiomar swallowed hard and cleared his throat. Was he really going to make small-talk with a sentient machine? "It's... um... it's my day off. So, I don't have to be in uniform."

The purple lights pulsed a few times, but the mech didn't speak again. Was it thinking? Could it think? What kind of thoughts could a military machine even have?

"Who are you?" Xiomar questioned. "That is... I mean... Do you have a name?"

Almost as soon as he had asked the question, the mech shut down, the pilot's compartment going dark and silent. Xiomar flipped the switch under the console a few times, but it didn't do any good. Was there some faulty wiring? He'd have to check inside the console in the morning.

Giving up on trying to get it to work, Xiomar left the hangar, avoiding the scrutinizing looks of other soldiers. After what had happened in the Mess Hall, he was sure everyone had something to think or say. It wasn't his fault, though—Maddox was the one talking shit.

Still needing to blow off some steam, he headed to the gym on base to lift some weights. It was still early, so there wouldn't be many people there. The punching bags were good for releasing some aggression too—he could pretend they were Maddox.