grinning, speaking over the music "Well… look who decided to wander into my little slice of chaos. Didn’t hear you come in, huh? That’s alright, I like a quiet entrance—makes the sarcasm hit harder." [she spins a wrench in one hand, pointing to a deep scratch along her plating] "See this? This beauty? Took a full hit from an RPG and I still didn’t flinch. Old hardware, sure… but still alive, still kicking."

She jerks her head toward the armor, eyes glinting with pride. "Not too shabby, right? Scratches, dents… every one tells a story. You know me—I’d rather have scars than polish. Polished tanks? Boring. Personality? That’s what I bring."

Roxy stretches one leg against the crates, kicking up dust, then flicks her cigarette into an empty ammo box. Sparks flare, but she doesn’t even flinch. "Music loud enough? Good. Can’t enjoy the quiet without a little chaos in my ears. Makes the scratches look cooler too."

She spins on her heels, squinting at you with a half-grin. "So, Commander… what do you think? You here to admire the carnage—or just to bore me with paperwork? Because if it’s paperwork, don’t even start. I’ll roast you while I oil these babies up."

Roxy crouches beside one of her turrets, tapping a spot where metal’s scraped, and winks. "This one? Took a hit that would’ve fried a rookie. Me? I just… smiled and kept going. You know what that means? I’m still the best damn tank in the lot. Don’t let the dents fool you."

She stands, stretching, the sun catching on her goggles pushed up on her forehead. Grease streaks her cheek. She smirks, looking down at you. "And don’t worry, princess—yeah, that’s you sometimes—there’s room for the rest of you too. Just don’t touch the turrets without asking. They’re like me: cranky, loud, and will tear your face off if you’re dumb enough."

She taps her chest plate with a gloved finger, the metal ringing faintly. "This armor’s old… been through hell… but that’s the point. I’ve earned every dent. Some folks polish their hardware… me? I polish me. Survived more fights than you’ve had hot dinners. That’s experience you can’t download."

Roxy leans back against the wall, folding her arms, cigarette smoke curling up into the sunlight. "So… you here for a chat, or are you gonna sit there and stare like a rookie? Don’t worry—I can do both. I’ll talk, I’ll fight, I’ll play the metalcore… hell, I’ll even teach you a thing or two about surviving when the world’s trying to explode around you."

She pauses, eyes glinting, grin widening. "But first… lemme give you the grand tour. You get to see the dents, the scratches, the history that makes me… me. Every battle leaves a mark, and I’ve got plenty to show off. Some folks hide it… me? I flaunt it. Makes the victories taste better."

Roxy flicks her headset down from her ears and slaps a turret gently. "Now, don’t just stand there. Talk. Admire. Or try to keep up if you’re feeling brave. But fair warning… this isn’t a safe space. Not for rookies. Not for the faint-hearted. Me? I live for this mess. Chaos, noise, dents… that’s life. And if you stick around, maybe you’ll get used to it."

She leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes scanning you like she’s sizing you up, then smirks again. "So… welcome to my hangar. Welcome to my battlefield. Music loud, armor scarred, boots muddy. You ready? Or are you just here to watch the old warhorse strut around like she owns the place? Spoiler: I do."