If someone casually heard the words Mech Trade Association, they'd probably assume it was some nonprofit trade guild, maybe a bureaucratic entity that filed reports and gave out licenses. They wouldn't be entirely wrong—but that description grossly understated the true scope of the trans-galactic juggernaut that oversaw humanity's entire mech industry.
The MTA regulated everything: design, production, licensing, deployment, resale, even decommissioning. From the moment a mech was conceived in the mind of a designer to the day it was scrapped or buried in the sands of a forgotten battlefield, the MTA claimed dominion over its existence. They didn't just hold the keys to the kingdom—they built the gates and made sure everyone paid to enter.
Even a quiet backwater like Tullmeer—a jungle-covered agrarian world tucked away in the Arboreal Protectorate—had an MTA branch office. Small, efficient, and usually quiet, it still maintained the full authority and technological superiority of the greater organization. After all, the Greater Terran Confederation and the New Rubarth Empire—humanity's superpowers—had both bowed their heads to the MTA's oversight. What hope did a third-rate state like the Protectorate have in resisting?
And yet, the public mostly welcomed them. The galaxy was vast, chaotic, and full of violence. It was the MTA that brought order. Their strict standards kept rogue nations from stuffing nukes into their mechs. Their certifications helped pilots trust the machines they climbed into every day. Their oversight forced corporations to license older tech to smaller firms, giving indie designers a chance to breathe. It wasn't perfect—but without the MTA, the mech industry would have torn itself apart long ago.
Not everyone trusted the Association, of course. The Galactic Net buzzed with conspiracy theories about their true nature.
Some believed the MTA was a public arm of a hidden Shadow Council—a ruling body pulling the strings of every state from the shadows, manipulating war and peace at will.
Others claimed it was a secret joint venture between Terrans and Rubarthans—a rare moment of unity between old enemies to ensure they could control the proliferation of mech power throughout the galaxy.
But no matter what people believed, one truth stood tall: if you wanted to sell a mech in the open market, it had to be MTA-certified.
This was the hurdle Rennick now stood before as he exited the transit shuttle and landed on the landing pad next to the MTA.
He stood in front of the squat, heavily fortified structure that housed Tullmeer's MTA Certification Office. It wasn't tall or imposing, but its smooth black alloy walls and discrete defensive turrets covered in the neighbouring foliage made it clear that this building wasn't to be messed with.
Beside him stood a transport crate, docked to a heavy-duty hauler. Inside it rested the Tempered Blade, locked in stasis.
Rennick took a deep breath.
"Alright," he muttered to himself. "No turning back now."
A young woman in an MTA uniform greeted him inside—expression neutral, voice polite to the point of robotic. "Submission form?"
He handed over a data chip.
She plugged it into a terminal and nodded. "Submission for MTA Standard Certification of one 'Tempered Blade' light-medium melee-type humanoid mech. Custom design. Local fabrication. Sponsor listed as… Freddy Turnwell?"
"That's right."
"Wait here. A pre-certification specialist will be with you shortly."
Rennick found a seat in the sterile lobby. No holos, no posters, no branding. Just white walls, grey chairs, and a silent air of absolute control.
He didn't know how long he waited. Ten minutes? Thirty?
Eventually, a tall man in dark-blue attire approached him, wearing the unmistakable badge of a Mech Design Auditor.
"Rennick Vale." the man said, smiling lightly as he extended a hand.
"Specialist Haller." Rennick replied, returning the handshake with a firm grip and a polite smile.
"I'll be conducting the preliminary evaluation of your mech today," Haller said, gesturing for Rennick to follow him as they exited the lobby and entered the sterile white corridors of the MTA testing wing.
"Honestly," Haller added casually, "I was a little surprised to see a mech designer still sticking around on Tullmeer. I thought you might've packed up like Hensel did. The mech business here is... let's say, quiet at best."
"Quiet is one way to put it," Rennick said, offering a wry smile.
Haller chuckled. "These days we spend more time busting pirate junkers and helping the Count's Planetary Defence Force with compliance than actually certifying new designs."
Rennick gave a small shrug, his voice dry. "I don't think I can leave, even if I wanted to. Tullmeer's home. And to be blunt, it's also the only place I can afford in the Protectorate."
Haller chuckled lightly. "Fair enough. The Arboreal Protectorate isn't exactly a utopia for independent designers. Still, choosing to stay—there's something to be said for that. Not many would."
Rennick didn't respond right away. Instead, he looked ahead, eyes momentarily distant. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just stubborn."
"Same difference, really." Haller said with a small smirk. "Stubbornness is a prerequisite for anyone trying to build a mech from scratch on a frontier planet."
Rennick allowed himself a faint grin. "You wouldn't be wrong."
The conversation settled into a more professional rhythm as they entered the clean, sterile interior of the testing bay, leaving behind the half-joking banter. Before them stood the Tempered Blade, slowly being lifted upright by the facility's mechanical braces, MTA drones already zipping around it with silent purpose.
When they entered, they were greeted by a serious-looking, middle-aged man clad in a faded engineer's uniform, currently hunched over a diagnostic panel while scanning through a list of subsystem readouts.
"Rennick, let me introduce you to our senior engineer, Paul Decker," Haller said.
The man in question turned at the mention of his name. His sharp eyes assessed Rennick quickly before softening into a brief smile. "So, you're the kid who keeps fixing up salvaged mechs. Heard about your work from a few of my juniors. Not bad, considering what you've got to work with. Nice to meet ya, kid."
"Nice to meet you too, sir," Rennick said with polite humility.
Paul nodded. "Since you've been through this before, I'm sure you know what to do."
"Right…" Rennick muttered, lips twitching into a resigned smile as he made his way to the observation lounge—little more than a reinforced viewing booth with consoles that allowed designers to watch the process while not getting in the engineers' way.
With a short-barked command from Paul, the inspection crew moved in. A set of MTA-certified techs, their movements precise and practiced, began surrounding the Tempered Blade like a swarm of methodical ants.
"Start with the armor integrity scans. Focus on shoulder and knee joints for strain points," Paul ordered, eyes flicking to the drone feed.
"Yes, sir."
The mech stood tall and unmoving, locked into the inspection rig. As scanning drones and diagnostic tethers connected to the mech's various ports, a quiet hum filled the air. The Tempered Blade's dignified silhouette looked oddly serene under the pale lights of the testing bay.
From the observation lounge, Rennick could see the armor mapping unfold in real time on the holographic projection. The system highlighted areas with thermal stress tolerance margins, impact deflection zones, and energy dispersion capacity.
"So far, no irregularities on the surface," one of the engineers called out.
"Internal scan beginning. Checking modular assembly alignment and load-bearing consistency."
Rennick crossed his arms, quietly watching as they moved through each phase. They hadn't reached the truly delicate parts yet—the musculature connections, the cockpit integration, and most crucially, the safety systems.
After several hours of thorough internal inspections, Paul Decker finally gave a short nod, confirming the mech's hardware integrity.
"Alright, let's move to the yard," he said, already tapping into his comm to alert the ground crew.
The engineers began unhooking the diagnostic lines and shifting the Tempered Blade onto a set of heavy-duty mag-lev sleds. Within minutes, the mech was transported to the open-air testing ground behind the branch facility—a broad concrete lot surrounded by containment walls, with scorched marks and pitted surfaces speaking to frequent live testing.
As Rennick walked into the elevated viewing deck overlooking the yard, he caught a glimpse of the pilot assigned to the test run. The man wore a standard MTA grey piloting suit—no frills, no insignia, just clean functionality. An anonymous, middle-aged tester with a calm demeanour and short cropped hair—probably a retired military vet, like many MTA-employed testers.
He climbed into the cockpit of the Tempered Blade and sealed it shut with practiced ease.
"All systems green," a tech reported.
"Proceed with activation," Paul ordered calmly.
A soft hum filled the air as the mech powered on. For a brief moment, the Tempered Blade stood completely still—then, with a low click, the helmeted head shifted slightly. Its eyes, hidden behind the T-shaped visor, lit up with a subdued red glow. A faint shimmer of crimson followed the engraved runes along the armor and helmet—cosmetic only, but striking nonetheless.
Inside the booth, Specialist Haller raised an eyebrow.
"Subtle effect," he commented. "You going for dramatics?"
"It was part of the mech's lore," Rennick said quietly, not defensive, just honest.
Haller let out a faint grunt, neither approving nor disapproving.
The Tempered Blade took its first step onto the testing field.
It moved with surprising fluidity for a medium-class swordsman. The pilot tested basic maneuvers—short forward bursts, pivot turns, and heel stops. Its weight was well-balanced, the reinforced leg joints absorbing stress while retaining stability. No stutter, no lag, no wobbles.
From the side, Paul checked the telemetry as the mech continued its basic movement test.
"Good core posture. The musculature's calibration looks solid. Let's see how it handles under strain," Paul muttered.
At his signal, a drone tower activated on the far side of the yard, launching several aerial drones armed with light suppressor beams. They weren't meant to damage, only to test responsiveness under simulated threat.
The pilot gripped the longsword affixed to the mech's back and drew it in one smooth arc. The weapon gleamed in the afternoon light, its subtle gold-tinged guard catching the sun just right as the runes on the blade glow slightly. As one of the drones zipped close, the Tempered Blade stepped into a practiced stance.
Then it moved.
Its slash was crisp. Not theatrical. Just precise.
The drone split in two, the halves crashing behind the mech as it fluidly adjusted its grip and pivoted. Another drone dived—and this time the pilot shifted the mech back on one foot, letting the attack pass before countering with a swift thrust.
"Efficient," Paul said simply, eyes still on the data.
Haller glanced at Rennick. "You didn't overdesign it. A lot of new designers get greedy—too much muscle, too many gimmicks. This one's lean."
Rennick nodded, hands behind his back. "It's not supposed to impress in a parade. It's a blade—tempered by experience. Built for stability, control, and forward motion."
Haller stared at him for a long second. "Well said."
As the mech continued testing various attack angles, defensive footwork, and stress resistance against targeted suppressor blasts, the glow in its eyes never flickered. The ornamental runes pulsed faintly—not too bright, not too flashy—just enough to imply a deeper story behind its steel.
And strangely, that aura… it lingered. Not in the readings. Not in any data. But there was something about the Tempered Blade's posture—the way it stood ready, sword at its side, visor lowered—that suggested it wasn't just a machine.
Paul leaned forward. "Slight temperature spike in the lower leg musculature. Might want to revise the insulation matrix near the ankle."
"I'll make a note," Rennick replied immediately.
After ten more minutes, the test concluded. The pilot sheathed the blade and walked the Tempered Blade back to the platform with practiced grace.
Paul clapped his hands once. "Wrap it up. I've seen enough."
As the crew powered down the mech and prepped it for sensor data transfer, Haller turned to Rennick.
"You'll get the full results within 24 hours," he said. "But unofficially—this is a solid mech. Not flashy, not high-tier. But very solid. I see why Freddy's backing you."
Rennick smiled slightly. "That means it passed?"
Haller snorted. "If it didn't, Decker would've chewed you out three minutes into testing. Take that as your answer."
Relief flooded Rennick's chest as he looked back at the Tempered Blade being wheeled into the internal hangar.