A squad of uniformed men enters hanger A. The ordered chaos that is mech armor maintenance causes men to run back and forth with tools, ammo and spare parts. The sounds of heavy foot-falls and air tools make up the main rhythm; far-off bombs are backup.

The squad stops in front of its 12 feet tall machines, a foot shorter than most – better for speed and many battle scars adorn their once clean, gun metal finish. The blue paint and stripes marking their unit type are more for the sake of tradition and are of no help for field work.

As they each approach their machines, the youngest pats the knee joint of his machine.

“Good morning Jessica.”

“Johnson…..Don’t talk to your suit,” grumbles the commander.

“Commander. Your teams mechs are fueled, packages and general cargo have been loaded as usual,” says a mechanic.

“Thanks,” says the commander as he climbs into the cockpit and begins flipping switches.

Three suits step forward.

“ALL RIGHT BOYS!”

CLICK CLICK CLICK

“LETS DELIVER THE F#$%ING MAIL!”