A Mentor of Old

[Miranda Frost]

The armor itself was heavy, its immense weight oppressive in regards to her remaining strength. Her hot breath fogged her vision, the heat inside the armor laying thick against her drenched flesh. It was dark save for the soft scarlet glow of her eye barely lifting the veil between her and the helmet's inner components. Hastily taped wires weaved themselves through the helmet's protective harnesses, its sharp bends protruding to prod Miranda's head. She could feel the others prepare the armor for power up with each clumsy movement jostling her within the tight prison with each twist of various switches embedded the back and joints of her armor. She'd snap frustratingly at the assistant, but both movement and sound was silenced by this walking coffin. The assistants wouldn't hear even the slightest whisper from her complaints.

 And then there was power, or at least the minimal amount. The whirring of machinery vibrated through the armor's steel. Her digits would tighten to a tight fist and her arms flexed to test its function. She could move. Although the harnesses clung tightly to her body, her movements weren't hindered in the slightest. If it weren't for the unbearable heat she could perhaps fool her body into believing she felt weightless and unhindered, but it still didn't do much to make the rag-tag armor any less bearable. As her arms flexed, she could feel the warped metal grind into her robust prosthetic, producing a sickening vibration that radiated up to her ears.

 The other electronic systems the suit hosted would follow suit in a rough manner similar to the armor's motor functions. The device pressed against her ear would sputter and crackle and the visor's video feed would be  riddled with a layer of digital static. Surely this suit would spare no expense. Had her limbs had not been replaced, such a suite would be quite impossible to utilize.

 "Miranda. Can you hear me.?"

 She'd tilt her head down as far as she could given the neck brace restricting her movement. She'd wince, her eye straining  to look down at the lower part of the screen lining the wall  of the helmet's face facing Miranda. 

 "Yes. Can YOU hear me?", Miranda would growl as a bead of sweat finessed itself into her eye. Something had to be done here or she'd cause more trouble than it was worth. in The person in dirty fatigues scribbled on his little note pad before looking over her.  His gloved hand would reach behind her and slam itself into the back plate, rattling the entirety of the armor's frame.

 "Oh... the fans aren't working?", he'd reply, his eyes widening in astonishment. 

 "Out of all the things you could be surprised about.... no. They aren't. Its hot as fuck in here."

 "Oh. Of course. Right away."  The man would move behind her. His hands fiddling about with unseen controls. Only the slight shift in the armor's apparent weight showed he was doing anything, yet nothing he did appeared to fix the problem she desired.

 "Jesus Christ. Have you tried unplugging it and plugging it back in? I heard that works", she'd remark, her voice dripping with sarcasm. 

 The armor was almost not worth the plan that required it. Almost.