Tankpot

In the empty dark of the cockpit, Genevieve screamed. At first, she had screamed because of the pain, the broken bones and psychostigmatic injuries that matched the damage to her knight armour. Then, she screamed because of fear, at not being able to open the escape hatch, at not being able to goad her knight into action. Now, after hours, maybe days locked in the pitch black of what she had accepted as her coffin, she screamed with rage. She hammered at the inert slab of the hatchway panel with her fists, roaring curses and damning her own inadequacies. She cried out the names of her sister and her uncle so they could come to her aid, even though they must surely share her fate, or worse. In the empty dark of the cockpit, she finally fell silent, and began to sob. What an ignoble way for a Knight to die. Brought low by rabble armed with crude elctromagnetic pikes, they swarmed her, shorted her systems and left her there. They would be back, with las-cutters and melta torches, and the