Callsign: CorpseBride
Nova Matthews- that's the name in the records at least. Though curiously, there's no history of a Nova Matthews before she entered the Handler program. And why CorpseBride? She could have taken any callsign, picked any design, but she went with skeletal arms holding a bridal bouquet. Aspiration, trauma? Who knows. The rumors drift around base, she was smitten with a Girl in training who died, she lost her husband to a rebel attack and joined the program just to start over, she was hand picked from some snooty academy and that's why she looks at everyone but her hounds with so much disdain. The truth, she keeps that to her chest. Better to let them talk, it doesn't matter anyway you can't change the past. But there are clues for anyone caring to pay attention. Hidden beneath her barrette, and the high collar of the oversized jacket that always clings to her shoulders, buried under her soft brown hair; a thin scar about 6 inches long trailing down her scalp and just onto her neck. The attentive hounds notice how her hands and knees ache when they transit atmo, or a storm rolls over the base. How the smell of the exhaust in the hangar makes her shiver just a little. The good girls know the feeling of the metal prosthetic bones under her skin, can hear the softest whine of the motors and actuators in their quiet moments together. Her Aces have listened to the nightmares that wake their handler in the dead of night when they get to sleep at her feet. The sorties she survived, the sisters she lost, the sisters she crawled over to get out, the corpses that haunt her dreams. The ones she loved and the ones she lost, crawling out of the darkness to smother her when she lets her guard down for a moment. Sometimes they call her soft. The director reminds her that the Girls are things, tools to accomplish the mission, disposable. But he can't argue with her results; no one can. She treats them better and makes them think they're more than disposable parts. It doesn't take much; the bar is in the floor. Simply taking the time to treat their wounds after she beats them is more than enough to buy their loyalty. Giving them a gentle rubdown with lotion when they're good for her, obey orders, pull the trigger without a thought slipping between their ears? That makes Her their everything. She barely needs to punish them, just her disappointment, and the loss of her praise and pampering is more than enough to crush them. Though it doesn't stop her from using her boots and fists when she feels like it. The result? Her hounds last longer, fight harder, and do better than the rest. Their Mistress rises through the ranks of Handlers, a goddess of war lifted on the backs of her dutiful Girls in their steel bodies. A rising star seeming without limit. After all, it takes a hound to know how to inspire her hounds to do their best.
