| I always picture myself not as a plain-old human. Instead, I'm more of a cyborg with what remains of my body wired to some kind of battle armor. I can see with a reticle pointing at things moving anywhere... When I pay attention to something, the reticle points to the object in question. Nowadays, it keeps pointing to traffic lights because I'm not one who gets to run around as freely anymore. It's not all rubble and bloodied soil anymore; it's all traffic with cars, trucks, and pedestrian traffic. Living, human-controlled, boring traffic.
My favorite part of this battle suit is the weapons. I don't just hold them, but they are attached to the armor and I can feel them move, fire, and get jammed. I've got a machine gun, a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, and a mortar for all those hard-to-reach spots. However, I wanted to use a rifle. I think of it as a weapon where you put all of your aggressions, your anger, and your rage into one little bullet and let it go. The armor's probably too clunky to hold one. I look more like a fire support type than the guy who goes into the shit first. I want to get into the shit. I should be working far away like an artillery unit, but I want to just go up to a steroid-pumped SOB and twist his arm leaving this beast the options to run or die.. I'll settle for an arm-mounted shotgun that I can be proud to call a "12-gauge cluestick."
I don't think I can die in this armor; It's a great thing when you're going to an actual intended Hell, like in college where you tell the fraternity types to sod off or eat mortars. However, people will walk away from me like I'm the Frankenstein monster. They will never touch me, and I don't think the people in college should touch me. They'll never understand when I have gone through in this shape. | 
