"The hell am I going to do with a therapist at my age?" crabby old Dolores grumbled at the snot-nosed kid from admin that'd dared interrupt her me time for some paper-pusher nonsense. "Are they going to help me take care of this garden?"
Certify her as okay to drive her mech? Ridiculous. She'd been doing it since long before this wet noodle was born, and she'd die in the saddle.
The old warhorse pointed her trowel at the poor rookie who'd drawn the short straw. "Why don't you go to the quartermaster, get yourself a hoe and come help me instead of going around bothering people with your nonsense."
He could only stand there and tremble, feeling like he was staring down the length of a sword. Like any wrong move would be his last.
"Well?" Dolores grumbled. "What are you waiting for? Shoo." Something occurred to her. "Oh, and if you have any friends, bring them along."
