I’ve spent most of my life as a mercenary. Ever since I was 8 years old I’ve lived a nomadic life, serving as a meal boy and janitor. At 12 I was given the chance to pilot a Mech, a speedy scout Mech of the Runner variant, although it’d been stripped of its weapons and I was deployed only to serve as a distraction. But now I’m 26 and the leader of this outfit, and the proud pilot of a Titan Class Mech. We live as we always have, roaming the Milky Way Galaxy in search for jobs from whoever pays us enough. Sometimes we lose friends and teammates, sometimes it’s because they were newbies who thought this was all fun and games, sometimes it was professionals who made a bad call or got overwhelmed in a firefight. Whoever it was, then dying never bothered me, not as much as it used to anyway. In this line of work, grief was a luxury we couldn’t afford, it’s a similar deal with fear, whether you try to ignore it or not, you’ll become numb to it eventually. My outfit grieves for no one, and we fear nothing, well, nothing except 2 things. We fear the two things all do, the ringing of Church Bells and the Prayers of a Priest.