Work Text:
Brawl was really, really starting to hate this job. The work alone wasn’t bad - just loading and unloading the freight bots that came through - but most of his coworkers? Ugh. Warframe discrimination was rampant.
The new supervisor was a problem. Brawl was mostly deaf on one side, and he was still saving up for the surgery to replace his current hearing aid with a new one. It was the first time he’d needed to do that since getting his first one in, and the surgery had more than quadrupled in price. That was inflation and the economy for you during the Age of Rust. Regardless, despite the fact Brawl repeatedly told the supervisor which side was his bad one, the rotary, without fail , always yelled straight into Brawl’s good audial. Primus, that mech should be a drill sergeant instead.
His old one hadn’t been that bad. . . Even if you counted the blatant Functionism and xenophobia that came out of her mouth every day. She’d also been a zealous Septimus Prime supporter, which was always. . . fun.
Brawl had had some good memories with her, mostly during an after work event when some of the other workers convinced Brawl to tell them stories about his time serving in the War of the Threefold Spark.
It had been nice to reminisce, truth be told.
In some ways, his time in that war had been kinder to him than any other time in his life. He liked working with other soldiers, no one gave the tank any grief about his hearing or sight problems, and him and his commanding officer got on well. Friends? No, but definitely mutual respect. That came with Brawl being among the oldest soldiers in Septimus’ army - and one of the few members of Zeta Prime’s forces that had survived the Quintessons’ utter slaughter of them.