In Shining Armour

They considered me old-fashioned, I knew. Quaint. Nostaligic, even. But how could I ever feel safe knowing the only barrier between me and death was a manipulated quirk of physics?

It simply wasn't possible. So I did the slow, methodical rituals of armouring up. The shining exoskeletal frame pieces, the heavy power pack and its fuel canister. The near-silent whirring of motor systems checks. The polygonal armour plates with their UV-printed serial numbers and registration codes.

The plates were old. Freshly coated, yes, but they carried the stress lines and microfractures of past battles, each a tale of salvation from certain death. Next to them, the shining field projectors in their sealed black boxes seemed less like innovation and more like fantasy.

I locked in alone aboard the transport, a god of war amongst mere men. The cannon cradled in my hydraulic-powered arms was Thor's hammer to their rifles, Odin's spear to their anti-tank rockets.

There was simply no comparison.