Once things had settled down somewhat from the pod pop, once she had been assigned to a cabin and once she'd had a few days to relax and shove all her sudden anxieties about the world ending to somewhere else in the back of her mind, Sylia took her hardsuit for a test drive around the many vast hallways of the ship. The digital readouts had one
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Oh, hey. A woman in a datasuit, doing some kind of repairs on a set of power armor. It looked beefier than her own Garthim, but a lot lighter than a landmate.
"Hi," Deunan said.
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She started pawing through the tools. "I'm Deunan Knute, by the way. Nice armor."
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She looked over her shoulder again and smiled. "Sylia Stingray. Thank you very much."
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"What's it for?" she asked. Deunan was wondering what combat niche something too big for personal armor and too small for a landmate filled.
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She tapped her helmet. "Though they're all custom built. The police doesn't have anything like them."
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She stopped her search for a screwdriver and leaned in over Sylia's hardsuit. "Civilian? You with a PMC*?" Deunan eyed her with a hint of suspicion. It didn't really matter here, but Deunan was a cop, and didn't trust guns for hire.
*Private Military Corporation, aka mercenaries.
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"A PMC? Goodness, no," Sylia almost laughed. "I am a civilian, yes, but I would best describe my organization as a privately funded community service."
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"I pay and train women to wear my suits and destroy rogue Boomers that the police can't deal with, to keep them from hurting innocent people. That's all," she assured her. "I'm hardly an anarchist."
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