A Novo Solo variant on the basic pattern of powersuit/heavy lifter that's served all over the outer colonies. The average NEP Mongoose, or Mog, has been decommissioned, retrofitted, rebuilt, scrapped, demilitarized and recommissioned so many times they have a bad reputation with recruits. Even after a complete rebuild, the cranial jack rends to retain... a certain personality, let's say. Rookie Mog drivers would call it a ghost, but that's being dramatic about issues with biofeedback. Tough, versatile, the Mog is the backbone of mechanized infantry, and so ubiquitous that 'mog' became a catch-all for powersuits as a whole. They may just be so much scrap underfoot of a Touro, but coordinated attacks from an entire squad is no joke.
He looked across the garage floor at his power suit. A Mongoose M-8-4-1, or Mog... and hated it with irrational venom. Its canopy was open, which was just a single piece of curved armor raised on hidraulic rams, showing off the assault arms underneath. Twin 8mm machine guns were raised on the Mog's arms pointing to the ceiling in a stowed or safe position. The whole machine had a fresh coat of olive drab paint on it, but even that couldn't hide the age of the thing. Adapted from an older design that the first colonists brought with them, the Mongoose was a bastard of a machine. Those colonists used to strip them down to bare minimum functionality, so they could be mass produced with the limited resources at their disposal. The Troubles put an end to that however. Now they were stuck with rust buckets, forced to constantly cannibalize what they had left and repair their aging arsenal, all to maintain the military's precarious position of power over the populace. Kinney used to think it made him special when he got pulled from infantry training for Mog school. He scored damn well on the tests too. His cerebellum was sufficiently atuned to accept the cranial jack, and that meant he could stride in the battlefield in his own 8 foot tall death machine. Except there weren't any battlefields anymore. His Mongoose powersuit was a relic from the last conflict, adapted from a war machine to a utility vehicle and back again. He constantly got bad feedback, ghost images on his comm display and the left leg twitched with annoying frequency, so much so that he swore the M-8-4-1 was a living being, one that was trying to kill him. Sometimes it simply refused to respond to any commands at all. Sergeant Kroenig had informed him that it was just TV problems; it would be okay after a few months of batting in. "Mogs are a bit temperamental when breaking in a new driver" he assured him. After seven months into a year long tour of routine patrols and sergeant Kroenig, the novelty of being a Mongoose pilot had worn off.
Chapter 1 of the Brigador Audiobook