A mech handler that used to be a pilot, still goes out in the field. Instead of the rabid, warhungry chiuauas that are its charges, it's the sheepdog, patroling, corraling, guiding. The handler is out with its dogs like the hunter it is. A flick of the wrist with a pointed finger, and the other mechs are set loose, ready to demolish the target.
It's easier to communicate at these shorter distances, with a laser to point out exactly where to strike, barely a second of delay between commands being said and recieved, and, of course, the dogs can bring their handler the catch, confirm it's dead.
The handler out in the field, orchestrating death in person. The handler that sets its charges to stay while it reminds the enemy that you never kick a dog in front of its owner. The handler whose own tail, though long since replaced with a port to control the leashes, still wags ever so gently when it, too, gets a kill.
The handler that always save one treat for itself, and the charges that never returned to base. The handler who curls up besides its hounds because it's most comfortable there at night. Who keeps its old muzzle by its microphone as a reminder to what its charges are going through.
