"Well, when you put it like that -" said Sarra with a smile, a shrug and a -

[i]- she's got a plasma gun![/i]

You can't believe it. You should be better than that. You [i]should [/i]have noticed. [i]November [/i]should have noticed. Different wars select for different personality traits, and you both went through a war where anyone without a certain baseline of paranoia about being ambushed at any moment simply did not make it. And here you are, events playing out like you are remembering them. You see the blue glow, the strain, the thoughtless flick to the overcharged setting, the way the coils ripple as the shimmering cloud of cosmic fire erupts from the tip directly towards -

You feel the heat brush your cheek as the shot passes. You hear the detonation behind you as the majority of November-Black is outright vaporized. 

"Ow! Fuck! Motherfucker!" the killer has dropped the gun (you flinch as the [i]plasma gun[/i] hits the floor), clutching her hands. For a moment you wonder if it overloaded - but no? That was a successful shot? Then what - is she [i]not wearing gloves[/i]? Even ordinary fire from one of those things builds up heat fast and insulating gloves are basic safety features, and this lesson would have been learned if she had ever fired that gun on that setting before. As deities go, the Machine God was at least always immediate with his judgements.

But even as the matron kneels down to tend to the maiden, the crone has her eyes on the prize. She has a laspistol in her hand and aimed at your head, drawn during that same non-moment before, standing just far away enough to avoid a CQB takedown. She has professionalism enough to cover for both of her comrades. "One goes to war with the army one has," she muttered, almost apologetically. "Less elegantly it is. Would you like to hear my counteroffer?"