Eyes that were a vivid red shot open. Helmet could not help but wonder if the color was because of prolonged fusion with the machine; it was undoubtedly unnatural. Initially, she didn’t move her head, but her eyes quickly captured the scene. They darted down to look at the blanket first, then over to Helmet as he tried to angle the flashlight to avoid blinding her. Then she looked past him as if expecting something to be behind him. He resisted the urge to turn around as she focused on him.
The young woman stared at him a moment, and he waited patiently. Helmet figured it would be best for her to have the first words. He did his best to make a gentle expression, but given the odd lighting, he wasn’t sure how it was coming across. For her part, the girl took several minutes to find the words. They came out as a gargle at first—raspy and rough—Helmet wondered when she last spoke to someone. After several moments, she found her words. “Get the hell out of here!” the girl suddenly shouted. Her voice was rough and crackled as she almost growled at Helmet. He smiled gently.
“I understand you might be confused, but I mean you no harm,” he began a prepared speech that was worked out while she slept. “I am a traveler who came across you. After seeing your fight–”
“I don’t care; get away from me!” she spat.
The metal joints of the machine groaned as it sat up. Helmet was thrown to the floor as the cockpit moved appropriately. She turned around to where the others had situated the campfire behind the machine’s head and kneeled down to get the hole in the chest as low to the ground as possible.
It might have seemed at first that the sudden movement of the Reaper did not shake the other 4; Coat held the spoon to casually stir the food, Slacks was in the middle of cleaning his long rifle, and the duo of Bandana and Glasses were playing cards on the hood of the jeep. It looked as if they were carrying on as usual, but Helmet knew them well enough; each had frozen in place and was doing their best to keep calm.
Standing up, Helmet brushed himself off and stood in front of the hole in the machine’s chest.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you!” he shouted. The others immediately continued on, like someone had unpaused the scene. It all happened so fast that the girl couldn’t have realized. Helmet quickly noticed where her attention, the direction of her eyes, was focused—the pot of food. A slight growl came from her. The movement under the blanket indicated she moved a hand over her empty stomach as her face flushed a soft red.
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“We are making enough for you to have some too!” Helmet offered.
Her expression distorted to a scowl. She looked as if she was gritting her teeth together like she was trying to carve stone, then her face softened.
“I suppose a bite wouldn’t hurt,” she said with the most disinterested tone possible through her rough, cracking voice.
“That’s great to hear!” Helmet replied. He struggled to sound friendly and open, though he had no desire to display any other demeanor; years of walking through the hell-torn world dulled his basic social courtesies.
“Helmet! About five minutes!” Coat shouted up, causing the older man to turn. He pulled a bottle of spices out of the long jacket, which gave him his nickname, and gently flicked some dry herbs into the dinner.
The girl’s unnatural red eyes narrowed. Helmet assumed she thought the name was weird but didn’t want to start a conversation. She seemed like the type who didn’t want to waste any breath, but he couldn’t tell if that was her natural self or the self-brought about by being bound to the giant machine.
“Odd name, huh?” Helmet said with a laugh. She squirmed in the machine’s chair, and he figured he was right in his assumptions. The older man had gotten good at guessing other thoughts over the years.
“I wasn’t….”
“It’s a nickname of sorts. Got it for,” he knocked on the helmet, “I guess you could say it was a bit of a joke one of our guys started a while back.”
“I don’t care,” she replied bluntly.
Helmet chuckled. He slid his hands into his pockets, then pulled them out again.
“I can see how our in-jokes might not amuse others.”
“Yeah.”
“So, what should we call you?”
The girl looked down to avoid his gaze; it was easier to think without looking at someone; Helmet remembered a time he felt that way. He expected she planned to dine and dash, which was reasonable as far as he could imagine.
“Angela,” the girl finally relented. Her scarlet eyes suggested she didn’t care to give her name if she planned to run afterward.
“Angela, a fine name,” Helmet replied. He waited for her to ask his real name, but the question never came. The young woman froze for a moment after he used her name. Her red eyes darted down, and the movement under the blanket suggested her hand sat gently over her heart. Helmet wondered how long it had been since someone called her by her name. She shook her head and glared at him.
“Are you happy now?” she grunted at Helmet. He made a soft sigh and shook his head.
“I think the food is done; let’s get something to eat.”
Not even a second after the older man spoke, Coat shouted out: “Soups on!” Angela jumped at Helmet's precise timing.
On the ground, they heard Coat and Slacks argue about whether it was right to call the dinner soup or stew before shouting at Bandana as he happily slid in front to fill up his bowl. Helmet shook his head and turned to watch as Glasses carefully filled the bowl, which would be given to their new companion.