Su Huaijin was squatting in front of the wreckage of RX-78-2 when the rain of 2150, wrapped in the smell of metal rust, penetrated the iron roof of the "Old Huaijin Restoration Shop".
The knees of his blue overalls were stained with machine oil. He held the manual calibration ruler left by his grandfather in his left hand and moved his right index finger slowly along the servo motor housing on the left shoulder of the mecha. The wheelbase deviation here must be controlled within 0.03 Mm. Otherwise, this old-era mecha, which was judged to be "scrap-grade", would not even be qualified as a museum exhibit.
"It's the seventh day." He murmured in a low voice, the calibration ruler glowing dullly in the moonlight.
The portrait of my grandfather hangs on the back wall of the shop, and the edge of the frame is wrapped with faded red silk. The old man's eyes in the photo are the same as the one-eyed camera of the mecha in front of him, and they always seem to hide unsaid words.
"These mechas are not scrap metal, they are the eyes of history." Grandpa's words, holding his wrist before his death, were pressed against his hot skin at this moment.
The siren sounded at 0:17.
It was a scream similar to a high-voltage current piercing an insulator, and the back of Su Huaijin's neck instantly stretched like a bowstring.
The moment he raised his head, RX-78-2's left arm suddenly rose thirty degrees, tiny electric sparks burst out from the joints, and the originally dark one-eyed camera suddenly glowed with scarlet light - the same sign as the EVA Unit 1 that ran amok in the museum three years ago.
