I still remember my first time putting the hat on. It’s not a hat though really. A hat doesn’t have a full lexan face shield with integrated infra red, re breather, neck gaskets, trauma pads or radio pickups.
I’d been in training for a month, just on the suits, and it was all second nature. Before we go under, we all recite together. It’s a function check, as we mount on, or in to, each piece of the armor, done in unison as a call and answer.
“May this maille, blessed by Payne, guard thy skin.”
“MAY IT GUARD OUR SKIN, AS HONOR GUARDS OUR SOULS.”
“May the servos of thy arms and legs carry thee into peril and back again.”
“MAY THEY AID US THERE IF OUR TASK NOT BE DONE, OR LEAVE US IF OUR TIME BE UP.”
“May the helms protect thy neck, be thy eyes, and guard thy consciousness.”
“MAY OUR PRINCIPLES AND FAITH GUARD US WHERE WE SHALL WALK.”
“May thy weapons be sharp, and thy skill unerring.”
“MAY WE BE THE ARMORED FIST OF PAYNE, TO CARRY OUT HIS SENTENCE UPON THE VILE.”
It’s rousing, no matter how many times I do it. That and the drugs really get your game face on. It also conveniently doesn’t mention things like the urethra plugs, or rubber baffles sewn into the ass of the suits. Details, unsightly, but necessary.
Some people hate the feeling of being surrounded by armor, some find the stuff too heavy (take the time and tune your servos asshole), and some freak out inside the hat. Claustrophobic. It’s not something anyone can do, and if you can’t then congratulations, you’re SANE.
I love it though. I feel fucking ten feet tall and five feet wise when I’m armored up. (Even though it only boost my height about 12 inches, all told.) I used to love the medieval sports groups, armoring up in a mix of homemade armor and hockey gear to swing sticks, so maybe I’m predisposed. It gets scary the first time you loose power and fall into a sewage main. Hell, who WOULDN’T that scare. You learn to keep your cool, though, assess things. With your emergency floats, punch out explosives, and the auxiliary knives tied around, you get out when the getting is good.
Got my suit screwed bad once. The 3rd one I lost, and I was PISSED. Chaplain said I’d have to prep lasagna for the team and do all the cleanup solo if I lost another. Wouldn’t you know? That DAY a damn Nessie cuts my main power trunks and dumps me in the drink, a water main too deep to recover the suit from. Man, I came out roaring foaming mad, knife in hand from cutting my straps, ready to gut the thing by hand. Took Williams and Tycho, still armored mind, to hold me back.
Chaplain just laughed when we got back to rally point, and told me I had a spirit no trial could quench… and to get my ass into the fucking kitchen.
Longest walk back to the base EVER.
This seemed like a logical way to make love of fighting a career. Well, maybe it’s more a lifestyle. I’m some kind of warrior monk now, technically, but best gig I can think of for someone who likes dishing out hand – to – hand pain, and we’re getting some legit dangerous monsters. Public service, and it’s always good to do what you love. Fuck, it was either this or joust and Ren Faires.
