Fahima, Varma, and Bills slammed once more into the exit hatch. Did it budge this time? Fahima couldn't tell. The line of light seemed slightly wider, but was that merely hope? Wishful thinking?

"Balls," Varma said. He let off from the door, and headed towards the weapons hatch.

"Oh hell, Varma." Fahima shook her head. "Keep your dick in your pants. We aren't shooting our way out that door. The blast is just as likely to kill us all as it is to knock that door loose." Fahima nodded towards the hatch beside the armory. "Get that hatch there."

"When'd you become the boss of me?" Varma asked, lifting open the floor hatch.

"Just now." Fahima rummaged through the bin passing over crate after crate.

"You're half the size of me."

"Yeah, because command is a function of size."

"I'm just saying --"

Fahima hauled out a one and half meter metallic case, dropping it to the floor and interrupting Varma. "Just help me into this thing." She clicked it open revealing her personal exoskeleton.

"Okay, yeah, yeah. We could do that." Varma removed the leg braces first, clicking open the snaps and opening up the shell for Fahima. She stepped about 30 centimeters up, locking her feet into the braces, then slammed the shell closed.

"Next up," she said, fighting back a cough. Elevated by the legs, Fahima found herself choking in the smoke gathering at the top of the capsule. Her eyes watered, and she did her best to hold her breath.

"Yes, ma'am." Varma lifted up the body armor, Bills running over to help with the weight. As they secured the leg joints to their connections on the trunk of the suit, Fahima steeled herself, fighting the faintest tinges of claustrophobia. She could stomach months confined in a twenty-five person Z-13 Platoon transport, with the functional space for ten, but the constraints of the GX class exoskeletons always set her on edge. Plus, no matter what research came out of M.A.W.A.R. the punk ass eggheads in development could never get the coolant systems right. The exoskeletons were always hot as balls. The fire wasn't helping.

No pain, no glory. She beat her chest plate, psyching herself up.

"Almost there," Varma said, securing the shoulder connection joining the left sleeve with the body of the suit. Bills worked on the other arm. "Just need your helmet and HUD."

"No need." The suit alone would likely be enough. Fahima didn't see any need to constrain herself any further.

The last arm joint clasped, Fahima initiated the start up with the flick of her wrist, smiling as the suit hummed to life. A surge of excitement rose up, replacing her discomfort. This, this is the type of work for which Fahima was meant.

She guided the suit, an extension of herself. Even with the faint hint of its weight pulling her down, the exoskeleton glided forward effortlessly, its hydraulics humming and the smells of oil and grease mingling and calling forth memories of her grandfather's workshop in Talis. The summers had been hot there, much like here in the capsule, and the work had been hard. Talis had a blue collar mentality, thriving off mining and manufacturing, the skies smoke-filled, churning with an industrial gusto. It had been a different world, both literally and figuratively - a world of reds and rust, of fire and smoke, ash and sweat. It had been home.

The sweat beaded down Fahima's brow. This was home now. She coughed as the smoke filled her lungs, smoker's lungs, lungs that had breathed in the tar and forges of Talis. This, this capsule was nothing. Just one more industrial mishap. You took it in, and you dealt with it. You didn't dwell on the worst, but took action. She was a Talisian. A soldier. A private of Hailstorm. A private of the 37th.

"Hooah!" she shouted, and charged. The hands of her exoskeleton collided with the hatch, and Fahima gripped, the metal digits denting the door as they dug into it. A metallic screech sounded and Fahima flinched, but never slowed. Her feet planted, and with a gentle kick of her heel, braces dropped from each and drilled into the floor, stabilizing her position.

Thus shored up, she pushed. A loud metal rending echoed through the capsule, and the sliver of light between the hatch and the seal grew. Suddenly smoke began to billow out through the new opening, rushing past Fahima, coating her in a thick layer of soot. Her head pounded, and she could feel herself gasping for breath between coughing spasms. Still she persisted.

I am a Talisian, she thought once more. I am a soldier. My squad is depending on me.

The metal rending increased in intensity and her foot began to slip, the brace pulling back on the floor panel, ripping it apart. In a moment, she would fall, pinned under the weight of the exoskeleton. She could feel her balance failing. Then, at last, the door broke from its hinges, and she flung it out into the open air of Alium.

Before her, barring most of the entryway, rested a large basaltic rock, its slick black surface mingling with the dark plumes of smoke. Fahima glanced back at her fellow soldiers. Through the smoke she could only make out Varma and Bills, each with breathing masks clasped tightly to their mouths. They had to get out and fast.

Fahima flicked her heel again and the braces retracted from the floor, freeing her footing. She raised her left arm towards the nearest window and fired. A burst of three bullets shattered the glass, shards flying, and smoke rushing out through the newly formed exit. That taken care of, Fahima pushed through the hatchway and began pounding upon the basaltic outcrop. The impact reverberated through the entirety of her exoskeleton, but Fahima would not let up.

Her throat burned, and she could barely see, her eyes reddening, struggling against the smoke. Still she battered the rock, fragments of stone pebbling the cratered expanse outside. Her ears rang with each reverberation, and two of the right hand's finger joints had bent in and jammed, their operations' mechanisms thrusting back and stabbing into her knuckles.

Quitting.

She punched again.

Is.

And Again.

Not.

And again. She could feel blood dribbling down her hand and pooling within the inner chambers of the exoskeleton. It mingled with the sweat flooding over her.

An.

She punched again, more stone fragments falling away and a new crack racing down along the back of a jutting protrusion.

Option.

She aimed for the weak point - for the newly formed crevice in the rock. As metal and stone collided a thunderous impact echoed out across the plain, and the new crevice fissured, a large hunk of basalt sloughing away and tumbling to the ground. At last there was room for an exit.

Karzai stooped through the hatchway, and out into the fresh air of Alium.