I'm watching a robot the size of a skyscraper wade through the streets of my hometown, the pilots inside making it wave its great metal hands at the tiny crowds below. The parade is in full swing, with confetti and bands and pretty women running into the street to kiss the handsome Jaeger pilots who are saving our lives, one day at a time. It's all very idyllic and sweet.

I should be enjoying this.

I should be grateful that thanks to the Jaeger Rangers I can have a somewhat normal life in this apocalyptic nightmare world.

I should be thankful to even be alive.

What I shouldn't be is so jealous I can barely breathe. But I am.

I'm standing at the front of the crowd, because even in this age of mechanized heroics some favors are granted to those of us who aren't as whole as we used to be. My leg goes unnoticed beneath khaki pants that ward off the chill but my titanium alloy arm still causes people to step out of my way with apologies and barely concealed stares. I lost my right arm and leg to an IED in Afghanistan, in a war that lies all but forgotten underneath the deluge of the Kaiju.

I was a soldier. More than that, I was a ranger. The original ranger and the only kind as far as I was concerned. US Army Rangers, some of the best men I've ever known. We were elite, we were the best of the best, forged under weeks of training and years of combat. Being a ranger meant something then. People respected us then. People remembered us then.

These days, if you go to a diner claiming to be a vet, the kid at the counter looks you up and down and scoffs, "Which Jaeger did you drive, old man?" Old man. I'm not as old as I look. I'm a young man in my heart, and certainly younger than Hercules Hansen, the golden boy of the Jaeger program. But young as I feel, I'm a relic. An artifact from a time when men slaughtered other men rather than monsters. No one remembers those days any more.

I don't know why I'm here. Watching the Jaeger Rangers being showered with affection and respect and so much gratitude makes me irrationally overwhelmed with anger and envy. I hate being here. I hate watching this. I hate watching these cocky kids in flight suits that think they own the world. They practically do, of course, and we all owe them our lives. They take our thanks like rock stars. Seems like any kid in a suit can be a ranger these days. Of course that's not true, I know that. But I'm watching these kids parade past me and they just look so new that it's not even fair.

The Hansens are here today. The younger, Chuck, is drinking in the glory with his hands raised to the crowd. A handsome thing in a red dress dashes out to plant a kiss on his cheek and he accepts it like it's his due. What a jerk. I shift uncomfortably, wanting to spit on their polished boots but not wanting to seem as bitter as I am. I pull my Army Veteran hat lower over my eyes and try to rein in my anger. I don't even know why I wore the stupid thing, it's as outdated as I am.

This doesn't make sense. I didn't serve for the thanks, I served to protect my people. The last thing I should be wanting is recognition and praise and parades through the city. I did my duty and that was all. Still, I think, no one likes to be forgotten. And people like me, the soldiers of another age, have been mostly forgotten in this new world.

The crowd around me falls weirdly hushed and I'm drawn out of my bitter and angry contemplation to observe the disturbance. Hercules Hansen stands in front of me. He's walked away from the parade, away from his son, away from the fawning admirers, to stand in front of me. The people around us shrink away, as if too awed by the living legend to even stand close. I don't. I meet Hansen's eyes with a steady gaze, challenging him. What do you want with me. I will not bow to you. I do not worship you.

If it had been Chuck Hansen confronting me, perhaps I would have seen some level of distaste, some level of wonder that I was not cowed by such a hero. But this was the father, not the son, and where I expect to see pity or arrogance, I see... Respect.

We are not so different, you and I. We are both warriors. We both have a duty. You carried yours for me, now I carry it for you. You are not forgotten.

"Thank you," Hansen says aloud, "for your service." He holds out his hand to me and on his arm is the mark of the Royal Australian Air Force. What do you know. Hansen is a relic too.

I take his living hand in my artificial one, the one that most people hesitate to touch, and shake it firmly. "Thank you for yours," I respond, and I say it with no trace of malice. I owe this man and others like him my life. I cannot pretend otherwise.

The parade continues, but I go home. No one stops me on the way home to thank me for my service and no one cheers when I walk past. I suppose praise is a game for younger men. Heroes are too soon forgotten, a truth that I could see Herc Hansen knew all too well. The age of the ranger has passed, and the age of the Jaeger has begun and I guess that's all there is to that. We are destined to be forgotten in the expanse of history.

But it is nice to know that not everyone has forgotten yet.