His ancient power armor sealed itself with a comforting
hiss, locking him in its closed environment. The whirrs and hums were comforting;
it made him feel safe. It was the one consistent in his life. That life was one
of wandering and war. Through it all, he’d been protected by his power armor.
It had sustained scratches, a complete rebuild of the servo system, and some
heavy visual individualization, (as they called it during his time in imperial
service). His helmet had been reformed into the shape of a leering skull, the
heavy shoulders were festooned with twisted, rusty spikes.
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