Jaxon wiped grease from his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge that resembled an oil slick on sunburned skin. The humid air inside his workshop, a corrugated iron shell baking under the relentless Terran sun, was thick with the smell of welding fumes, lubricant, and desperation. He squinted at the hulking metal monstrosity before him – a battered AgriMech, its harvesting claws twisted and useless, its chassis riddled with dents and rust.

  "Another victim of the crimson dust storms," he muttered, reaching for his trusty plasma torch.

  Jaxon owned and operated "Mech Mend," a one-man operation tucked away on the fringes of Veridia City. He didn't advertise much. Word-of-mouth, fueled by his reputation for stubborn ingenuity and a willingness to tackle jobs others turned down, was enough to keep him afloat. He rented the workshop - a glorified shed, really - from a cantankerous old lady named Agnes who treated him like a stray cat she tolerated.

  But the shed was his. He’d poured every spare credit he had into tools, salvaged spare parts, and the occasional luxury of a cooling unit that barely managed to take the edge off the afternoon heat. It was his haven, his sanctuary, his kingdom of grease and gears.

  The AgriMech sputtered and hissed as he ran diagnostics. Farmers, miners, even a few scavengers – they were all his clients. They’d come to him with broken limbs, malfunctioning processors, and shredded armor. They couldn't afford the slick, corporate repair centers in the city, where repairs were often cheaper than the cost of transporting their behemoths. Jaxon was their last hope.

  His routine was a well-oiled (pun intended) machine. First, assessment. A careful inspection, noting the extent of the damage, identifying the faulty components, and mentally sketching out the repair process. Then, the sourcing. He scoured scrap yards, bartered with other mechanics, and sometimes even took risks, venturing into the dangerous zones outside the city walls for salvage. Finding the right parts could take days, but he prided himself on his resourcefulness.

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  Today, the AgriMech's main processor unit was fried. A common occurrence after a dust storm, the fine particles penetrating the shielding and causing havoc. He'd need a replacement.

  After a quick call to a local junkyard, Jaxon headed out, his trusty hoverbike sputtering to life with a reluctant cough. He returned a few hours later, sweating and covered in dust, but with a salvaged processor unit strapped to the back of his bike.

  The rest of the day and well into the night, Jaxon worked. He cleaned the unit, running diagnostics to ensure its functionality. He carefully removed the damaged processor from the AgriMech, the smell of burnt circuits stinging his nostrils. He meticulously installed the replacement, connecting wires and securing panels with practiced precision. The rhythmic hum of the plasma torch, the clang of metal on metal, the soft whirring of the cooling unit - they were the soundtrack to his life.

  Finally, as the first rays of dawn peeked through the cracks in the corrugated iron, he ran a full system check. The AgriMech rumbled to life, its harvesting claws extending and retracting smoothly. He grinned, a weary but satisfied smile.

  Then came the final step: the paperwork. Jaxon hated the paperwork. He navigated the archaic interface of the Veridia City maintenance database, logging the repair and issuing the necessary documentation. It was a tedious, soul-crushing task, but necessary to keep Agnes and the city inspectors off his back.

  The farmer, a weathered woman named Mara, arrived later that morning. Her face lit up when she saw her mech, restored to its former glory. She paid Jaxon in credits and a handful of freshly picked vegetables, a gesture that meant more than the money.

  "Thank you, Jaxon," she said, her voice thick with gratitude. "You saved my harvest.”

  As Mara drove away, Jaxon leaned against the AgriMech, watching until it disappeared over the horizon. He was exhausted, his hands aching, his eyes burning. But he felt a sense of purpose, a quiet satisfaction that no amount of money could buy.

  He knew tomorrow would bring another broken mech, another challenge, another race against time and the elements. He knew the dust storms would keep blowing, and the parts would keep breaking. But he also knew that he would be there, in his little workshop, patching them up, one mech at a time.

  He reached for his wrench, ready for the next job. After all, the rent was due at the end of the week. And Agnes wasn't known for her patience. Besides, the rhythmic clang of metal was a language he understood, a language of survival, a language he spoke fluently within the walls of his corrugated iron kingdom. The language of Mech Mend.