[Stuff Horse does:

Jump off the crude granite rooftop of a home, tackling a drone to the ground in the massive arms of her APU,

Accidentally bounce off the nose of your hovercraft, APU and all, her reinforced alloy elbows winging sparks off your armor-plated windows as she scrabbles to upright again, yelling,] Good fucking catch! [without apparent concern about where she's going to go from here, never mind get down,

smash sideways into the side of a butchered barge, three drones piling up on her in rapid succession, screaming her head off while she rips off her automatic under her arm. That is, you know, until her magazine clicks on empty.] Sshh--ee-it—

[cart a toddler out of the smoking ruin of a REAPER drone. Screaming. At first it seems like she must be in pain or terror, but get close enough, and she's cheering them on, woop woop. The kid, the Vindemiatrix cutting agilely overhead, your ship coming in. It's like she's screaming for fucking joy, and it seems to have dazed the boy in her arms into a stupefied smile--

run rangily across tarmac, her APU long since destroyed now, grease on her face and eyes raw red from smoke exposure, lightning rifle in her arm. She's on her way to a drone. Not one of theirs, but man-made. Data drone. There's something coming up behind her; she swings down behind a blasted wall, eels into the shadows fast. Though not faster than Machines can see.

The drones are after her, perpetually, like they're after every man, woman and child. They dog her long-legged stride with red optics and clutching legs, APU-motorized or otherwise. Sometimes she's ahead by inches. Sometimes, they're nose to nose. Before long, she's bleeding from two or three places, but it's nothing a bandage won't keep together for the next long hour.]

This is your operator speaking.

War is going good up here, [casually, like she's reviewing the weather, and not the burning chaos that might cut your life from under you while you're asleep in your chair, fighting imaginary space aliens.] Think Phoenix is going for the robot armpit. Someone blew up the grainery. 'Nother ship radio silent. Pretty smooth, eh. [Under the veneer of crazy person calm, Horse sounds out of breath, but then, she wasn't in the chair the last time you were awake. It must be crazy out there, so many people and too much fire, stops to make then starts again, firing on the enemy then banking out of the way, hiding, people to board, people to disembark.]

But you have a big fucker coming at your six. [And cue the Banshee scream.]