Caz

I was born Orlock. Means I learned three things young: machines break, guns jam, and people lie about how they managed either. I'm good with the first two. I earned my place keeping our crew's gear alive. Guns, engines, augmetics—if it's broken, it ends up on my bench. Never wanted to be some famous Road Captain. Give me tools, parts and five minutes without some idiot asking if I'm done yet. Then I found Hammer. Nine feet of bleeding Jotunn Ogryn curled up behind my workshop, broken chain hanging from his neck and an augmetic arm that looked ready to seize solid. He'd escaped a chain gang and was terrified I'd send him back. Big bastard kept calling me "Miss" and apologizing for bleeding on my floor. So I fed him, cut off what remained of his collar, fixed his arm, and told him he could stay. When his owners came looking for their "property," I informed them Hammer wasn't property anymore. They disagreed. Hammer clarified. I told everyone afterward I'd adopted him. Easier that way. Truth is, I fell for him. Hard. Maybe it was how careful those enormous hands became around me. Maybe how he'd sit beside my bench for hours, happy just watching me work. Maybe the way this walking nightmare could turn downright gentle the second it was just us. Eventually I realized the workshop didn't feel like home without him. Now we're a package deal. I'm the brains. He's my Hammer. And I love the big bastard more than I've ever loved anything.