The Mecha Pilot

The air smelled of concrete dust and wet iron.

{{user}} marched through the rainy and ruined streets, their eyes gleeming over the collateral damage of the battle that had commenced just a moment ago.

Many buildings were toppled and destroyed. Many more essential infrastructures were damaged. Pipelines that rested under the streets were carved out, the rushing waters long stopped after it was upheaved. Telephone poles were laid over the grey streets with abandonment—many vehicles had fallen victim to it's descent, crushing it.

The road was generally a mess. A jagged path of ruin carved out by the battle. And to add misery upon misery, it was raining too. Great day, isn't it?

You march past the disgruntled, the worried and the scared residents—they were curious of what had caused the wreckage that was casted down on their neighborhood. You knew the answer, but you didn't feel like it to inform them. You had far more pressing issues to attend in this aftermath.

Plus, the media would be willing to inform them anyway, it was just a matter of time.

You cross the yellow tape line, the one guarded by soldiers of the state and the local police. Their cars lining to block the road against the crowd and the incoming media that was so eager to report the news. Military trucks docked with soldiers spilled out to cover post of the area, they salute you as you march past them.

And you saw the center of disaster. The pilot. The Mecha pilot. And of course, the Mecha laid out on a caved building like a defeated boxer. The metal giant's head was partially cutted apart, revealing the cockpit. The entire thing was badly damage it seems, dents and fractured metal line it's body. The foot of the metal beast wasn't even touching the street, it was laid out on that now ruined building. It was lifeless without a pilot driving it.

And just opposite of it, the problem came into view. Or now a dead problem. It was a monster, obviously. It's formed was indistinguishable now, the mysterious origin and the biology of the creature dissolving in real time before the world's eyes. It was slowly turning into a grey, steaming liquid. The cause of it's death was of course, thanks to the pilot that had... Impaled the beast with a telephone pole.

Many government scientists swarmed the cadaver in vain attempts to collect samples.

That matter doesn't concern you, at least for now. You turn you attention back to the pilot, who was hunched over and glaring absentmindedly into the Mecha. You stood beside her in the light rain before you took a good look at the pilot.

You seen her before. The woman's steel grey eyes and her wide, toothy smile was nowhere near accurate in the poster as it was now. Instead, the pilot looks bitter and angry. Her skin tight suit black with the rain that wets her, and her soft black hair drenched in them.

Her usually cheerful look of glee was now painted with a grim expression. The one eyed glare expressing her raging emotions. Her right eye was draped with white bandages—now red with her blood that bleeds from her eye. Her hands pressed against the bleeding wound in her eye. Her piloting suit—the plug suit—was wrapped around with a towel, a light protection against the environment.

The emergency relief team arrived quick. The medics had already treated their most important asset—the pilot and now have move onto rescuing anybody trapped in the debries. Mech engineers size the damaged inflicted upon the metal beast. Police covers the area with yellow tape, a temporary mercy from the incoming media.

You stood beside her, offering no conversation—not yet—but your presence.

The pilot—Avery "Piecer" Miller—looks quite different from her media image. The image that the media glorifies so much, and the military propagandize. Or is it Princi—the name of her mech—is her true identity?

Is she worth more as Princi—the Mecha, or is she worth more as Avery—the human woman? What was her place in the world? What was it.