Professor Miles Angstrom walked into the bay with the expectation of quiet in the late afternoon. Instead, he heard the audible hum of electronics and diagnostic equipment. Normally, the older professor would have expressed excitement to see a student putting in extra hours; however, it was a national holiday. He had expected that he and the security guards would be the only ones working on the shortest day of the year.

The older man's footfalls were nearly silent, covered by the sound of the work. He stopped and eyed the bay from which the sounds were coming. By coincidence, it was the exact Mech bay he intended to visit.

Stepping up but staying in the shadows outside the mech bay-lighted area, he observed the goings. He saw a figure on the shorter side, around five foot seven or eight. He appeared male with short-cropped hair and was wearing coveralls in the school colors of blue and silver. He was also swearing at a readout. “Durachok kalavnie mahragor.” With his right hand, he reached out for another tool and plugged it into another interface, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a diagnostic screen. The person was deeply engrossed, muttering as he tapped away at the interface.

The stream of profanity lessened, but as the professor observed the man, he realized that he was taking diagnostic readings. The professor cleared his throat to announce himself to the oblivious man.

“What?” he said, looking up in surprise, his eyes wild. “Whose there? He asked as he raised a hand over his eyes to shade them from the harsh light.

“Good evening. Can you explain to me what you are doing with my Mecha?” the professor asked calmly in a sepulchral tone as he stepped into the bay. He gestured to the tall, sleek, towering figure of metal and ingenuity that stood, held up by a cradle. The gyroscope was powered down, and the humanoid battle machine was locked into place to prevent it from falling and damaging itself while it was being serviced or stored.

The young man looked up at it with a sigh, “I’m running some diagnostics on him…” he said, gesturing at the rig attached through a service port. “After that, I intend to run a few simulations.”

“And why would you be doing that? It is a holiday, after all.” The older man said with hardship, trying to get a read on the youth before him.

“It's only a holiday if you have a family to share it with, sir.” The young man said. The professor knew the truth about those words. “As to why I’m doing it, money. One of the design candidates thinks this will be a new project and is paying me to diagnose the problem for them. They wanted the answer without having to do the work themselves. And, well... I could use the extra money."

He stated nervously. “It's not much, but I’d rather be working on a mech than going out drinking on the longest night of the year.”

The older man laughed. “Are you even a student here?” he asked as he eyed the man but couldn’t match his face to the student roster. “You aren’t in the design and fabrication program,” he said accusingly.

“No,, sir. I’m in the technician program.” The man wiped his right hand on his coveralls and offered it to the professor. Kowal Zeidis Kovacs, I’m a second-year technician. I should graduate in a few months,” he said, smiling.

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“Kovacs?” he asked, trying to place the name. Do you think a second-year tech is qualified to work on the Wildcat?” The professor looked at him with a professional-level look of disdain.

“Work on? No. Diagnose, yes.” The young man said nervously.

Mile was disappointed but might as well put this youth in his place. “Now, tell me, what have you found so far?" He watched as the youth brightened and returned to the devices he had attached to the port.

“The reported fault is an error in the gyro scope.” He gave background on the issue that the professor was fully aware of.

“I know this part.” The older man stated brusquely.

The young technician nodded. “Of course you do; I’m sorry. But I talked to the last two pilots that reported the errors, the pilot assigned to this mech before them was transfered out on his graduation.” The young man then activated a computer next to the diagnostics. “I got the black box and synchronized it to the time the issues occurred. Then I ran the telemetry for this unit against the other known units of this model in the school's database.” The professor nodded at the work the student had already performed. “Then, based on that, I ran three simulations. Based off of the original telemetry.”

“And you came up with an intermittent short that can’t be tracked down,” the professor stated, already tired of the student's explanation.

“No, no, it's not an intermittent short. Well, it is, but it isn’t at the same time. By running the telemetry back before the incidents, I was able to determine that they had all performed a similar move approximately…” he said as he checked his notes. “Between four and a half to five minutes before the shutdown.”

The older man observed the young technician. “Can you show me the exact sequence of your simulations?” With a smile, the youth waved the older man into the light. I’ll start this thirty seconds ahead of the move that I believe is the cause of the issue.” The professor observed three repetitions of different simulations.

“Intriguing,” He said, eying the young man. “That’s a good observation. But why do you think the stabilizers are misaligning in the first place?"

Kovacs hesitated for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Well, sir, I believe it might be due to a signal repeater getting misaligned when the mech moves. Let me show you.” He said, switching to a more detailed view. “Somehow, the mech is triggering this junction box.” Professor Angstrom watched as the image moved and saw the mechs' musculature part rub along the outer edge of the junction box. “My theory doesn’t account for slight variances in component tolerances over time. This mech has been used for a while, and I think the wear and tear exacerbates the issue." The youth stated.

Mile’s eyes twinkled with a mix of amusement and approval. "An excellent deduction. But tell me, Kovacs, do you know who I am?"

The youth blinked, clearly puzzled by the question. "Honestly? No sir.”

Miles chuckled softly. "I’m Professor Miles Angstrom, the Dean of the Design and Fabrication Department."

Kowal’s eyes widened in shock and embarrassment. "I-I didn’t realize, sir. I’m so sorry."

Miles held up a hand to stop his apology. "No need to apologize, Young man. You’ve shown initiative and a good grasp of the problem.” He paused in thought. “Have you ever considered applying to the Design program?”

The youth laughed bitterly. “I’ve always wanted to be a designer, but money, sir.” He laughed. I have an account on Iron Reaper,” the man said with a smile. If I wasn’t here tonight, that's where I’d be.”

“Ah, you fancy yourself a pilot?” The professor asked.

The youth laughed, “I could wish; no, I have an anomaly that prevents me from piloting a mech. No, I’d be learning design principles. That's what the money is for.” The young man said sheepishly.

“Do tell,” Miles said, intrigued by the youth. He had never heard of anyone unable to learn to pilot a mech if they applied themselves.

“I run a speed shop in the game. I try to optimize other players' mechs. Most people don’t know it, but you can buy scraped mech and rebuild them. Last month I bought a Mustang Striker as scrap, the player didn’t want to pay to have it fixed up in game.” The professor looked intrigued at the young man's words.

“So you are going to, what rebuild it?”

“Sort of. I’m redesigning it using some of the virtual parts I have from other projects.” He tapped at the keyboard of his computer, dropped the simulation software, and brought up another program. He showed it to the professor, embarrassed. “The software is free, but it gives you an idea.” The professor perused the mech. It was a slab-sided beast. The original mech was over two hundred years old, from around the time man first went to the stars.

“I’d like to look at this further. Send it to my office, Mr Kovacs.” The man said thoughtfully, “Then clean this up and go home.” The older man then left the workshop, only pausing at the small entry door he had come through a half hour before. “You remind me of myself at your age—eager to learn and make a mark. There’s much you could achieve with your potential."