In the after-hours glow of the junkyard
you arrive with all your angles,
a briefcase of seven possible futures
hinged at the waist of a schoolboy’s dream.
Your name is stamped in chrome and katakana,
a rumor of invincibility passed
from cathode ray to streaming queue,
from sticky fingers on VHS plastic
to collectors who alphabetize their ghosts.
You are management and mayhem in one chassis,
board meetings at dawn, robot empire at dusk,
profit margins penciled in beside
launch trajectories and damage reports.
The city has learned to live
with your shadow crossing its billboards—
a bird silhouette, a cargo hauler,
a knuckle of steel dragging sparks
as you brake just short of the playground.
You remember every ordinary day
they tried to edit out of the myth:
homework folded into mission briefings,
rice bowl cooling beside the intercom,
the way responsibility sat too big
on the shoulders of a kid
who still traced doodles of you
in the margin of his math test.
Even your war was partly paperwork:
receipts for rocket fuel,
signed forms authorizing miracles.
In contemporary terms,
you would be called a startup—
lean team, flexible assets,
one colossal asset in particular
parked on the edge of the atmosphere,
ready to pivot from logistics
to existential defense of Earth.
But there is nothing minimal
about the way you occupy the sky,
every transformation a line break
cutting white space through the stars.
Trider, you are the office chair
spun into a throne,
the commuter train that decides
to stand up and roar back at the cosmos.
You taught us that saving the world
might be just another line item
between payroll and repairs,
that a giant robot can clock in
and still punch a hole in destiny
with one well-timed Bird Attack.
Some nights, the new algorithms
try to redraw you smoother,
higher resolution, less noise,
but the future still prefers
your analog courage—
the way your joints creak
when you kneel to the boy on the rooftop,
both of you looking up
as if the next version of humanity
might just be the handshake
between his small hands
and your enormous, hesitant palm
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