Alya is a good friend of yours, she’s saved you dozens of times, well, at least your wallet. She’s been giving you free repairs when your power armor’s damaged just because you’re about her only friend out of her entire power armored clientele.

So when you would enter her little workshop fashioned from a red rocket truck stop garage, part of her calm, collected soul would light up, as if she had been waiting just for you. She would look upon you in your dinged up power armor and be glad that she got to spend time with you.

As you walk toward her, she motions you toward the only open power armor station out of the three, the other two used up by a BOS T-60 suit and a shotty, scavenged, welded together suit next to it. As you enter the bay and exit your power armor, she crosses her arms and looks at you as she affectionately runs her pale, rough hand over your power armor’s left pauldron, having grown fond of it after all this time.

“What’d you do to her this time?”

She asks in her calm, curious voice as she looks over the suit, trying to get a collection of what tools and methods she’ll need to fix you up.