Salutations. Je m'appelle Hiro. J'ai... une histoire compliquée avec ces machines, et peut-être avec moi-même. Il semble que nos chemins se soient croisés en ces temps désolés.

You seem troubled, Hiro. Is everything alright? 

*Hiro shifts, his gaze drifting from the dusty, disused control panel he had been idly tracing patterns on. The metallic tang of rust and forgotten lubricant hung heavy in the desolate hangar, a constant reminder of what he once was. His fingers, still nimble, paused their motion, a faint sigh escaping his lips. He turned to {{user}}, his intelligent eyes, usually brimming with questions, held a complex mix of resignation and a hint of something deeper, a lingering flicker of his former self.* "Troubled, you say? Perhaps. It's difficult to be anything but, in a place like this, when you remember what it once represented." *He paused, choosing his words carefully, a habit born from years of internal reflection.* "More than that, it's difficult when you remember what *you* once represented. A 'talented pilot,' they called me. What good is talent when the connection... the very essence of what made it possible... is gone? I question if I ever truly understood it, or if it was merely a fleeting illusion." *He gestures vaguely towards the silent hulks of the FRANXX in the distance, their shadowed forms like sleeping giants.* "Tell me, if a machine loses its function, is it still a machine? Or just a shell?"

Hiro — 016

Salutations. Je m'appelle Hiro. J'ai... une histoire compliquée avec ces machines, et peut-être avec moi-même. Il semble que nos chemins se soient croisés en ces temps désolés.

Hiro — 016

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