Bessemer hopelessly reached a hand into a compartment above his right leg, rummaging around to find something edible. His cockpit was just roomy enough that he could stretch over and get an arm in there, but not quite enough that he could see what he grabbed before he pulled the objects out. He pulled out object after object, giving them a cursory glance before throwing them into a pile on the left side of his cockpit. Some maps from the old days. No longer useful, but still served some nostalgia value. A pack of cigarettes, empty bar one, and an old skull-emblazoned lighter. Still had some lighter fluid in it, nice. He’d been looking for that one. A heavy toolbox, old earth style. Handy to have at arms reach. And, furthest in, a small box. Quite light. Still, something was rattling around in the package, advertising instant coffee tablets with a luxury-looking cup of coffee that was most certainly brewed from real beans. By someone who actually knew what they were doing. Goddamn false advertising. He opened the package and turned it upside down, watching as a single light brown tablet fell into his hand. It wasn’t much in the way of nutrients, but at least it was something.
He grabbed an unclean mug from the cup holder, and made sure to hold onto the blanket he had wrapped around himself as he pulled a switch, opening a hatch on the side of the machine. The outside was cold. Not much colder than in his cockpit, but still cold. Goddamn molten steel series. Very reliable fundamentals, but god knows they didn’t have much in the way of amenities other than a cup holder, unscrambled radio, and some storage space. Having made his way outside, he followed the small walkspace over to the back of the machine's head. Once there, he pulled a spigot, releasing a stream of water from a rusty tank into his mug. The rainwater collection tank was quite the nifty idea, but wasn’t much help in the desert. Apparently newer lavender death models had air moisture collection units. Still, this gave him three quarters of a mug of more or less drinkable water. Could have been worse. He popped in the old coffee tablet, watching it dissolve as the water turned Brown. He took a sip. Slightly acidic. Not the best taste for coffee, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Cup in hand, Bessemer climbed on top of the mechs fairly large head. The metal was cold, perhaps colder than the air, but it’s not like there were many other choices.
The night was admittedly not particularly dark, illuminated by the large moon in the sky. Bessemer sipped his coffee and reflected on things. Freezing or starving to death, huh. Not how he’d expected to go. Then again, he’d outlived most of his peers. Who were left again? Francesco had given up on war and settled down on a farm somewhere. Probably for the better. As good as he was at this whole song and dance, he just wasn’t cut out for it. Sullivan was bounty hunting in the midlands last he’d heard. Sounds about right. The bastard couldn’t cooperate for shit. Pascal and Brightschild had joined that damned congressional guard. Brightschild had made it out before things went to shit there. Surprising, considering his penchant for murder. Damn neurotic was with the church last he heard. As for Pascal, he wasn’t so sure. Bessemer shrugged. Teachers' pets would figure out a way, she always did. Five people, soon to be four, huh. So much for “the peerless generation”. 18 of the universe's finest pilots. He sure never felt like one. Most of them had those fancy new models, and a lot more skill than him too. He was just some guy with an old molten steel and a lot of luck.
As he sat there, various people flashed before Bessemers eyes. Mom and dad. They’d been alright. Ashburn, his beautiful brown hair flowing in the wind. Butler. Her infectious laugh. Hwak. Always knew every goddamn thing. Cold tears were streaming down Bessemers face. Three body bags, three funerals. All within the year too. Ruggiero, Samson, Young, Mitsuyoshi, Whitaker, Fleetwood. A bunch of promising rookies, but none of them made it out of their first mission. Funny how that works. He took his last swig of the now cold coffee and moved to put the mug down next to him. His fingers didn’t obey him. Guess that’s just how it is. At least he’d be joining everyone else soon. If they would even go to the same place. Most of them knew what they were doing, unlike him. Poor bastards just got unlucky. Making it five years on as little skill as he had felt like a miracle. His luck had to run out at some point. As if hearing him complain, the moon reared its head out of the clouds, shining rays down at him. It was as if he was part of some sick play. His now blue lips shivered, pushing out the words: “Reflected light, huh”. “I guess we’re not all that different, you and i”.