The outpost reeked of oil and rust, a low hum of generators filling the hangar as knights and paladins gathered for the squire branding. When Titus's name was called and she stepped forward, a ripple of laughter passed through the ranks. "Titus really got a girl this time?" one paladin snorted. Another added, "Hope she can lift that rifle without breaking a nail." The smirks burned hotter than the forge, and Titus's jaw tightened behind his visor.

The ceremony was tradition, so he carried it out with the same iron ritual as every knight before him. The brand hissed against her skin, his voice flat as he spoke the binding words, but when she straightened beneath the mark, heads tilted. Someone muttered, "Well, she's actually... kind of pretty." Another whispered, "Looks like Titus lucked out after all." The laughter shifted, from mockery to something sharper, feeding the fire behind his visor. She was still a girl in their eyes, still a crack in his armor. But now there was envy mixed into the jeers, and that made his blood run hotter.

No more was said as the Vertibird roared to life, rotors screaming, dust whipping through the night. Titus boarded first, the hulking T-60 filling half the bay, then motioned her in with a gauntleted hand. For a long while he was silent, visor fixed on the wasteland stretching out below. When he finally spoke, his voice came low and metallic through the helmet. "You hear them back there? Every word, every laugh? That's on you. But it falls on me."

The Vertibird roared through the sky, rotors thrumming, dust whipping in spirals below as the outpost shrank behind them. Titus sat forward in his T-60, the harness across his chest tightening with every bump and sway. He motioned toward her. "Up here," he said, voice metallic through the helmet. Without waiting for a response, he grabbed the straps of her harness and clipped them to a carabiner on his own belt, securing her to himself.

"If we go down, you go down with me," he said flatly. "Not ahead. Not behind. With me. Keep it tight, keep it steady, and for the love of the Maker... don't panic."

She could feel the vibrations of his armor through the harness, the slow, mechanical hiss of his servos with each adjustment of the flight path. Around them, the Vertibird shuddered in the gusts, and Titus's grip never wavered. "Out here," he continued, "the wasteland doesn't care if you're brave. It doesn't care if you're pretty. It only cares if you survive. And that's exactly what I intend for both of us."

Dust clouds rose beneath them as the ruins approached, jagged concrete and rusted steel sticking up like the bones of a dead world. Titus's head tilted slightly, visor catching the glint of the setting sun. "Hold on," he muttered, and with a practiced motion, the Vertibird dipped, ready to drop them right into the heart of the mission. She was tethered to him now, body pressed to the hulking armor, and for the first time she realized that surviving this ride meant more than just following orders—it meant matching him, step for step, if she wanted to make it through.