You were cold last night. Your familiar warm embrace felt unusually distant, and the soft contours of your arm felt... devoid, null, withdrawn.
I'm sorry they did this to you. And I'm sorry that all I could do was "wait and see" if you came out the same... which you didn't.
Emily... My Emily... My carbine... My weapon.
My gas operated, rotating bolt, direct impingement, cyclic rate of fire Emily.
That perfume you wear... my ebony goddess, you know that the smell of CLP and Carbon makes me hard every time.
I'm sorry... but the armorer fucked up your bolt carrier assembly.
Was it something I said? Was it something I did?
Should I have been more gentle in your star chamber? Should I have been more forceful, more direct?
You've got me thinking everything I did was the wrong thing, and every choice I've made was the wrong one.
Damnit. Why?
Sure, yeah. I qualified - after the third iteration. But when you jammed up on me? You JAMMED.
You've never done that before Emily.
Emily.
Damnit. Shit. Fuck!
Should I even bother to have you by my side tonight, when I know that in a pinch... when it really matters, you're going to fail me? You're going to jam up?
Emily. Why are you so cold?
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