A dull thud rocked the van. Mart and May barely looked at each other and nodded. Butch was using too much ordinance again, but that was his way. They continued their work on the machines set in front of them.
Erica was rather less content with the twin's stoicism, and made a disparaging comment aloud. Mart ignored it and May didn't listen to her - this was just one of those weekly rituals. Something would get blown up, used up, or passed up - Erica or Tony would complain - and then the twins would chime in about the opportunity costs. The only big difference would be Tony tended to amend the argument with some comment about how he couldn't tell the androgynous twin from the one of indeterminate gender.
Why bother? There was just no arguing with idiots. Everyone else (Excepting one Beauford Ridley - a.k.a. Butch) seemed to think the power armors were some type of magic suits that let pilots just punch out any opponent like an iron plated super hero. If fact, they were designed explicitly not to get into close combat. The leg servos allowed jogging without fatigue, and the titanium spine could support heavier loads, and in turn - bigger guns. Actually using the fists as a weapon would probably end up damaging the tiny actuators in the fingers or knock the hap-tic feedback sensors out of calibration. All the manuals explicitly stated that the units should use the over-sized entrenching tools usually provided as a melee weapon rather than engage in martial arts. And of course, kicking would probably just lock the suits as the gyros and safe handling limitations kicked in.
Rapid popping noises outside the trailer serving as their work shack. That would be a problem. An occasional loud sound - an armor's heavy weapons picking of one or two, maybe a small group. Full auto gunfire, the things were close enough everyone needed to shoot back. The Twins once again looked up, nodded, and returned to their work.
"Moov asyde, its time for the cal very to rhide into acton."
"Not Yet" one replied "When its done" said the other.
"There his no reason to be one hundret per cent ettin up by undead, when an armor is ninety-fife percent ready!"
"Done" the two replied together, slapping down access panels simultaneously.
Erica ran up to the right side, pushed down on the flattened chest plate, and vaulted up, doing a hand stand before twisting ninety degrees and flipping her legs down into the machine. How she constantly avoided hurting herself doing that was a mystery, but it was a bit faster than the usual method of using a step ladder and then turning around. Starter button pressed, hydraulics whined, and brought the machine's front to its vertical position, then the head shifted forward from lying on the back to locking the two halves together. One foot stomped, then the other, and the arms came up in a quick bit of caleasthetics. Diagnostic complete, Erica grabbed a 25mm drum fed rifle from the left wall, and attached the snap line connected to the right shoulder of the unit to the weapon, letting it hang like a sling. From the other wall she took a 56mm metal storm tube containing a half dozen high explosive projectiles, and then headed for the double doors the twins had already swung open.