Chapter Text
The door to the hangar groaned as it slid open, letting in a sliver of the cold night air. Walter stepped inside, his boots clicking softly against the metal floor. The old hangar was dimly lit by the dull glow of the overhead lights, casting long shadows over the rows of half-scrapped parts and tools scattered around.
In the center, curled up in the cockpit of the beat-up MT they had spent the last week patching together, was 621. Their form was barely visible, nestled in the machine’s cramped seat, but Walter could hear the faint sound of gears turning, the soft hum of the MT’s idle systems still running.
Walter walked over, his fingers brushing against the cold, rusty railing as he moved closer to the machine. “Haven’t left that thing since yesterday,” he said, his voice low, trying not to disturb the quiet.
621 glanced down at him from the cockpit, their tired eyes barely flickering with recognition. They shifted slightly, sitting up, though the weariness in their body was unmistakable.
Walter held up a greasy paper bag, a faint smirk on his face. “Figured you’d want something that’s not cold engine grease. Got some food while I was out.”
621 stared at the bag for a moment before finally taking it. They didn’t eat right away, though. Instead, they leaned back into the seat, resting the bag on their lap.
“Found a folder with some intel on tonight’s fight too,” Walter continued, pulling out a worn, crinkled folder from under his jacket. “Rummy, right? Mad Stomp? Looks like he’s still kicking… somehow.”
At that, 621’s gaze shifted. They took the folder, flipping through the old pages. “I’ve met him before,” they said quietly, almost to themselves. “Back on Rubicon.”
Walter raised an eyebrow. “That right?”
621 nodded, leaning back further into the cockpit, eyes drifting toward the hangar’s ceiling, but not really seeing it. “It wasn’t much of a meeting. He thought I was an intruder. Decided the best way to ‘introduce’ himself was a fight.”
A faint, humorless chuckle escaped them, the first in days. “He launched himself off a platform mid-fight, AC was too heavy to get back up. Didn’t stop him from yelling that he’d ‘win the next one.’”
Walter snorted. “Sounds like him.”
“Yeah,” 621 muttered, tossing the file aside. “Looks like his MT isn’t much different now. Just bigger, and probably just as dumb.”
They both shared a quiet moment. Walter leaned against the railing, watching 621’s expression shift subtly as they stared at the flickering lights overhead. He waited a beat before pulling himself up onto the edge of the MT’s frame, balancing himself with a soft grunt.
“So,” Walter said, his tone casual but edged with concern, “how’re you feeling about tonight?”
621 didn’t answer right away, their eyes distant, haunted. “I’m fine,” they said eventually, but the words were hollow. “Just… tired.”
Walter wasn’t buying it, but he knew better than to push. “Whispers again?” he asked, his voice lowering, softer.
A brief flicker of something crossed 621’s face. “Yeah. Sometimes it’s the voices from Rubicon, sometimes… I don’t know. Just memories. Ghosts.”
Walter let out a sigh, moving closer, and before 621 could react, he wrapped his arms around them. The embrace was stiff at first, but slowly, 621 relaxed into it. They didn’t hug him back, but they didn’t push him away either.
“You’re not alone,” Walter whispered. “Not this time.”
They stayed like that for a while, neither saying anything, the only sound the faint hum of the MT’s systems and the distant groan of the old hangar settling.
Eventually, Walter pulled back, patting 621 on the shoulder. “Get some rest before the fight, alright?”
621 looked at him, their eyes heavy with exhaustion, but they didn’t nod. They just stared at the MT’s control panel, the gears and circuits flickering under the dim light.
“I’ll try,” they muttered, though both of them knew that was a lie.
Hours passed.
The hangar was silent now, the distant echoes of Walter’s footsteps long faded. 621 sat alone in the cockpit, the half-eaten bag of food left untouched beside them. They hadn’t moved since Walter left.
Their fingers absently traced the edges of the control panel, feeling the worn, dented metal beneath their fingertips. It wasn’t much—this machine. It was old, broken in more ways than one, barely holding together by the patches they’d slapped on during the past week. It creaked when it moved, the servos often lagging a second behind their commands. The armor was a mismatched patchwork of plates, each one telling a story of battles fought and repairs barely made.
But it would do.
621 flicked a switch, bringing up a diagnostic report on the screen. The machine was a mess of warnings and errors, red blinking lights scattered across the display. The targeting system was off by half a degree, one of the servos was overheating, and the right arm had a slight delay in response time. Nothing major—at least not enough to matter in a fight like this.
“Piece of junk,” 621 muttered under their breath, a faint smile pulling at their lips.
They leaned forward, tweaking a few of the settings, tightening a bolt here and there. It wouldn’t make much of a difference, but it kept their hands busy. Anything to keep their mind off the memories clawing at the back of their skull.
“I’ll win this fight,” they said to themselves, their voice barely a whisper. “One more fight, and I’ll have enough to get something better.”
They paused, staring at the battered machine in front of them. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs—for now. And it would get the job done.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The dim morning light filtered through the cracks in the hangar’s roof, casting soft beams over the patched-up machinery.
Walter’s grumbling broke the silence as he walked in, focused on a piece of crumpled paper in his hand. “Rent’s overdue again,” he muttered under his breath, taking a sip from his chipped coffee mug. “Just one more week… then I’ll figure it out.”
621, standing by the MT they’d been repairing, glanced over as Walter approached. “Morning,” Walter greeted, his tone slipping into something softer as he tucked the paper into his coat pocket.
“Morning,” 621 replied, voice calm and steady. They walked over to him, casually taking the mug from his hand without asking.
“Hey!” Walter’s protest was more reflex than genuine anger, though he didn’t make any effort to stop them. “That’s my coffee!”
621 took a sip, ignoring him. Their gaze drifted over to the MT, studying the worn hull and the new welds with the same meticulous focus that had kept them alive through battles far worse than this.
Walter sighed and gave a resigned shake of his head. “You’ve got your own damn coffee machine, you know.”
“Yours is better,” 621 replied with a faint smirk, handing the empty mug back to him. They returned their attention to the MT, checking the straps one last time. It wasn’t perfect. Nothing was. But it was ready.
And so were they.
The MT hovered inside the shipping container, the autopilot humming softly as Walter and 621 secured the last of the straps. The work was precise but unhurried. There was no fumbling, no hesitation—just the quiet confidence of two people who had been through this kind of prep a thousand times before.
“Think it’ll hold?” 621 asked, their tone almost casual as they tugged at the last strap.
Walter shrugged, not looking up from the controls. “It’ll have to. Besides, not like we’ve got anything else lined up if it doesn’t.
They walked in silence through the quiet streets, the container floating alongside them as the arena came into view in the distance. Walter kept glancing at 621, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. He hadn’t seen them like this in years—focused, calm, like the years away hadn’t dulled that edge.
“How you feeling?” he asked, the question more an afterthought than anything.
“Fine,” 621 replied, their voice steady. They didn’t need to say more. The nerves were there, but they were buried beneath years of experience, beneath the calm certainty that whatever was coming, they could handle it.
Walter gave a small grunt, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Still wish we had more time, you know. Get you something better than that heap of bolts.”
621 glanced at the MT’s container as it hovered beside them. “It’ll do.”
As they neared the arena, Walter stretched, groaning softly. “I’m getting too old for this.”
621 raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been saying that since we left Rubicon.”
Walter grunted again. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
The entrance to the half-collapsed Colosseum loomed ahead, its crumbling walls casting long shadows over the broken stone. Carla was already there, arms crossed, a playful smirk on her face as she spotted them.
“Well, look who it is,” she called out, closing the distance and pulling both Walter and 621 into a quick hug. “Tourist.” She grinned at 621, using the nickname she’d coined for them years ago on Rubicon. “And Walter—still kicking?”
“Barely,” Walter replied with a tired chuckle, pulling away and rubbing his neck. “But I’ll manage.”
Carla turned to 621, her expression softening just a little. “Heard about Chatty,” 621 said, their voice quieter now. “Wish I could’ve been there.”
Carla waved them off with a small, bittersweet smile. “Don’t worry about it. Chatty went out laughing. It was how he wanted it.”
621 nodded, a flicker of something unreadable crossing their face before Carla shifted the conversation.
“So,” Carla started, her tone brightening, “you’ve got Rummy tonight. Hell of a way to kick off your return, Tourist.”
Walter shot 621 a look, a mix of concern and curiosity. “You sure you’re up for this?”
621 met his gaze with calm certainty. “I’ve handled worse.”
Carla chuckled. “I’d hope so, given your history. But Rummy… well, he’s still the same. Drunk, high, and swinging that chainsaw around like he’s the king of the world. Don’t expect him to fight with much finesse. Just keep your distance.”
621 nodded, absorbing the information without any visible reaction. “Think he’ll remember me?”
Carla shrugged, a smirk on her face. “Rummy doesn’t remember much of anything these days. But it won’t matter. He’s still a wrecking ball, and you’ll need to be sharp.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rusty leaned back in his chair, eyes glued to the screen as the livestream came up. He scanned the name of the challenger—Raven—and a faint sense of recognition flickered through his mind.
“Raven, huh?” he muttered, his fingers tapping absently on the desk. There was something about that name, something that tugged at the edges of his memory.
A few quick keystrokes brought up a buried file—old, encrypted data from Rubicon. And there it was. Raven. 621.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back in the Colosseum, the crowd’s roars were muffled, distant. 621 stood at the foot of their MT, their hands brushing over the worn metal. It wasn’t an AC, wasn’t the kind of machine they used to pilot. But it would get the job done.
They climbed into the cockpit, settling into the seat with a slow exhale. The hum of the MT’s systems came to life under their fingers, the vibrations familiar even after all this time. Their grip on the controls tightened as the gates began to open.
This was their first MT Brawl. But they weren’t worried. They’d taken down ACs, wiped out entire battlefields. They’d razed planets. This? This was just a new battlefield, a new set of rules.
The gates groaned open, the blinding light of the arena flooding in. For a moment, 621 closed their eyes, feeling the weight of the moment settle on their shoulders.
When they opened them, they weren’t 621 anymore.
They were Raven.
And Raven was ready to soar again.
The gates to the arena groaned open, letting in a flood of harsh sunlight. The crowd’s roar washed over 621 as they stepped forward, the MT’s feet crunching down on the sand. Across from them, Rummy’s towering machine emerged, a hulking mass of metal with crude, brutal modifications.
Rummy’s MT was all bulk—chainsaw arms, spiked plating, and thrusters that belched smoke with every labored movement. His machine didn’t dance; it lumbered. But it was dangerous. One hit, one misstep, and it could be over.
Raven’s MT, in contrast, was far more modest. No extravagant weapons, just blades attached to the arms, built for agility rather than sheer power. But that was the plan. 621 had been through worse in a worse machine. This was just another battlefield.
“Ready, 621?” Walter’s voice crackled through the comms. “Remember—he’s slow but hits like a truck. Keep him moving, keep him guessing.”
621’s fingers tightened around the controls, the slight hum of the machine vibrating through their bones. They didn’t need Walter’s advice, but it grounded them. The gates clanged shut behind them, the arena sealing the two combatants inside.
“Let’s get this started,” Rummy’s voice, thick and slurred, crackled over the shared comms. His MT swung its chainsaw arm in a lazy arc, kicking up sand. “I’m gonna make this quick, kid. No point in dragging it out.”
621 didn’t respond. Their focus narrowed. The chainsaw whirred as Rummy lunged forward, his MT tearing up the ground in his wake. He was fast—faster than expected—but predictable. 621 sidestepped, letting the chainsaw slice through the air where they’d been standing moments ago.
Rummy’s machine skidded to a halt, kicking up sand as he spun around. “What’s wrong? Scared to get a little dirty?”
Raven darted around the arena, each movement sharp and precise. 621 had studied Rummy’s style—he was reckless, swinging with brute force but lacking any finesse. His MT’s heavy limbs slammed into the ground, sending shockwaves through the arena floor. Raven stayed light, bouncing back before each hit could land.
Every step, every dodge was calculated. 621 knew Rummy struggled when he had to fight vertically, so they moved up—kicking off the crumbling walls of the arena, leaping from one elevated position to the next, forcing Rummy to track them with his cumbersome machine.
“I’m gonna squash you like a bug!” Rummy snarled, swinging wildly as Raven darted up onto a broken column. His chainsaw smashed into the stone, shattering it, but 621 had already leapt away, landing lightly on the arena floor behind him.
Rummy growled in frustration, the sound of his thrusters coughing out black smoke as he tried to turn his sluggish machine around. “Stand still, damn it! I ain’t done with you!”
But Rummy’s anger made him sloppy. 621 anticipated his every move, dodging easily as the hulking MT charged forward again. Sand sprayed into the air as Rummy stomped across the arena, smashing into walls and sending debris flying. Raven weaved between the wreckage, always one step ahead, always out of reach.
“Fight back!” Rummy roared, his voice cracking through the comms. “Come on! What’s the point if you don’t fight?”
Rummy’s frustration reached a boiling point, and with a surge of raw power, his MT swiveled faster than expected. His chainsaw arm came crashing down, and 621—just a split second too slow this time—felt the impact reverberate through the cockpit. The MT’s left arm tore away with a sickening screech of metal, spiraling across the arena before hitting the ground in a cloud of dust.
621 winced as their head slammed against the cockpit, a sharp pain flaring above their eyebrow as blood trickled down into their eye. Their vision blurred for a moment, but they blinked it away, teeth gritting as they righted the MT. The pain was distant, secondary to the fight. They couldn’t afford to lose focus now.
“Gotcha now, kid!” Rummy’s voice crackled with triumph, his MT lumbering forward to press the attack. “You’re just as fragile as the rest.”
621 wiped the blood from their eye, their grip on the controls tightening. Rummy was overconfident, drunk on his perceived victory. But it wasn’t over. Not yet.
Rummy’s MT charged forward, the chainsaw spinning as it closed the distance. But 621 was already calculating—already planning.
They dodged to the side, letting Rummy’s momentum carry him forward, and in the same fluid motion, Raven leapt. The MT’s thrusters flared to life, launching them up and over Rummy’s machine, using the brute’s own speed against him.
Before Rummy could react, Raven landed on his back, the damaged MT clinging to the larger machine like a predator. 621’s blades sliced into Rummy’s thrusters, sparks flying as metal ground against metal.
“Get off me!” Rummy roared, trying to shake them off, but 621 held fast.
The crowd’s cheers rose to a deafening roar as Raven clambered up Rummy’s MT, their blade digging deep into the machine’s back. With a powerful kick, 621 sent Rummy’s MT stumbling forward, crashing into the crumbling walls of the arena.
The impact was catastrophic. The old stone buckled under the weight, collapsing in on itself and burying Rummy’s MT beneath tons of debris.
For a moment, there was silence. Dust and sand hung in the air, obscuring the view of the arena floor. 621 stood at the edge of the wreckage, blood trickling down their face, breathing heavy but steady. The fight was over. They’d won.
As the dust settled, the crowd erupted into cheers, but 621 barely heard them. The world narrowed to the sound of their own breathing, the thrum of the MT’s systems still humming in their ears.
“Nice work, Tourist,” Carla’s voice came through the comms, calm but impressed. “Didn’t think you had it in you to take down Rummy on your first go.”
621 leaned back in the cockpit, the adrenaline still coursing through their veins. The fight had been brutal, but they’d expected that. This was just the beginning.
“Walter,” they said quietly, “we’re going to need a new arm.”
Walter’s relieved laugh echoed through the comms. “We’ll figure it out. Good job, kid.”
621 allowed themselves a small, satisfied smile, their eyes fixed on the crumbled remains of the arena wall. They had been Raven once. They could be Raven again.