Get back into the hangar.
Stabilization scaffolding locks into place with a dull thump.
Seat slides back.
Cockpit opens.
Plan to immediately leave.
Slump back into the chair instead.
Shut eyes.
Breathe.
The heavy thump of a thermos on the console.
A glance at the clock confirmed it: ten minutes. Never any faster, never any slower.
"So," came the voice, "how was it?"
Marissa picked up the thermos, cold on the outside. She took a draught. Fresh, ice-cold water. Exactly the right thing.
"Hard. But," another slug of water, "pushed back another wave. Probably bought us another week to shore up before they try breaking the line again."
"Good." Marissa hadn't even heard her jack in, but Mike was already overlaying the dull echoes of machining with practiced taps on her tablet.
"Looking like nothing more than ammo and a few dings so far. Good work."
"Thanks."
A slosh of water. Tap, slide, tap tap.
"What were you thinking out there?"
"Not... much, admittedly. Positions, the enemy, when to reload, when to take cover. Thinking of the moment."
Slide. Slide. Tap.
"Not the argument?"
Tap.
Tap, slide.
Sigh.
"No, not the argument."
Another sip of water.
"I'll talk to her tonight."
"Good."
Tap.
Slide.
"Y'know, Mike?"
"Hm?"
"Why do you do this?"
"This?"
"Ask these things. Bring the water. Remember everything I dumped on you."
"Easy."
She didn't look up, fingers continuing their rhythm on the screen. Slide, tap tap, slide, tap. "Gives me something to occupy my brain while my hands are on autopilot."
"Ah."
"Know that look. 'That all?', you're thinking."
"Well.
"Yeah."
Tap.
Pause.
"Repairs get easy, after a while.
"Even if the mech is custom, unique, whatever. You only have so much bandwidth on what you do with it. Limited range of problems, limited range of parts. Limited range of what those parts can be.
"You learn it, you map it to what you know, you do it. There's no... space to be a virtuouso with it.
"You get to a point where your life about fixing things suddenly isn't about fixing much at all. It's comfortable, but the kind of boring, grey comfortable you get where everything can be called routine.
"So you get a little restless, and your thoughts wander. Someone talks to you, and their problems leak out, and the comfortable little diagnostic-maker in your brain finds itself making a list."
Tap, slide.
It was the most Marissa had ever heard her say.
"You make it sound so selfless."
"Eh. If I'm carrying the diagnostic, that spares the pilot. Less for the pilot's thoughts, less distractions in moments of danger. Safer for them, less trouble for the machine."
Tap.
"Not thinking about loss or fights on either end of a gun."
"Bingo."
"I can't tell if that's more thoughtful or mercenary of you."
"Makes two of us."
Tap, slide.
"Also nice doing a thing that isn't on me to fix, sometimes."
Tap.
"Guess it's time for me to get it from here then."
"Mm."
The seat creaked. Two boots clicked on the floor.
"Pardon me, Mike. Gotta get home."
"Good luck."
"Thanks."
Tap, slide.
"And for checking in too. I really appreciate it."
Slide.
"You're welcome."
Marissa slipped her way past, stepping out onto the scaffolding. As she descended, she could still hear the sound slowly fading into the background, losing itself in the scrape of metal and the sparking of welds and the groan of servos.
Tap. Tap. Slide.