"Roger roger sarge," Ralley answered, grinning eagerly at the Chimera.
"Don't worry this isn't my first time with a fine lady such as yourself," she says, retrieving a number of tools— Data-slate, Lascutter, Combi-tool, and a few others— from her pack, "I'll find all the right spots and will have you purring in no time."
She removes the flak armor from her chest and unzips the top portion of the uniform beneath, revealing a black tank top and skin covered in ink of all shades and hues. The most pronounced of which is the Imperial Eagle— spreading across her back and shoulders— followed a pair of matching prases on each forearm— I shall.
Securing the upper half of her uniform around her waist, she scans the surrounding troops for an assistant. Spotting the young soldier that was watching her earlier, Ralley crosses the area and interrupts her conversation with a fellow guardsman— another young initiate with a chiseled jaw and bright blue eyes.
"Hey, sorry to interrupt. You're going to help me with that beautiful lady over there," she said, pointing at the Chimera, "C'mon"
The young woman follows her back to the tank and Ralley begins explaining the tools of the trade, followed by the rules of working with gifts from the Mechanicus.
"First off, strip down to whatever you got beneath your uniform," she explains, motioning at herself as an example, "If you got nothing on under there, then you're braver than you look. You're likely to get a lot of drippings on you, working on one of these, good to try and save the uniform if you can. Then, it's time to pray."
"Pray?" the young woman asks, finally breaking her silence.
"To the machine spirit. A small measure of respect goes a long way," Ralley replies, kneeling before the great war beast— their protector, their salvation.
She closes her eyes and begins reciting words that sound, to any within earshot, as practiced and well-worn as the grips of their lasguns, "This Machine is discharged into your care. Fight with this machine, and guard it from the shame of defeat. Serve this machine, as you would have it fight for you."
After a moment of silence, Ralley, responds to the invocation, "I shall."
Then, without another word, she sets to the task of maintaining... Tyra... she decides, harkening back to an old word uttered by her grandfather.
"Tyra," she says, trying out the name, sliding her open palm across the tank's armor, "Like thunder."