Over late nights and coffee, her husband once described power armor to her as "an experience." He'd been unable to explain it further and she'd never pushed more than that. He'd never been the greatest with words that weren't a soldier's bluntness or the gush of love to their dog before it'd run, and she'd never blamed him for the lack of it. "Maybe at the next war, you'll join me," he'd said once in a voice that was more serious than it should have been. They'd laughed together than.
She's not laughing now.
Her breath is filtered in a tin can that booms with every footstep and it's too close to her and every muscle she has is screaming. Why did she do this? There's a reason why most need training for this. Snatching the minigun off the vertibird, feeling it rip like paper from its mount, is too easy, but the gun itself is too unwieldy. Awkward. And then that thing. A deathclaw. God, a monster; going toe-to-toe with her. She's a lawyer, not a soldier. Her battles are quick-witted words, not – not this.
She wishes he were here, as stupid as it sounds — how impossible, with him dead and rotting in a TV dinner box she couldn't switch closed once she'd seen him so still. He'd know where to huddle up and hide, how to take it down. Her brave, war-torn and gentle soldier. She can almost hear him and god, it's so pathetic that it settles something inside her.
Damn impressive, Garvey called her.
Sure, she thinks – he didn't hear her screaming.