After my first service in the war, I was diagnosed with a congenital insensitivity to pain... and I was informed that never again would I feel the slightest pin prick or sensation of heat. I was devastated, of course, but I didn't let it stop me. During my second service I received multiple lacerations from my own field knife, scalded the flesh of my arms issuing soup rations, and broke three ribs tightening my own harness on a rappel. So then I come to Rapture, this broken woman with too many scars to count... And some Doc promises me it's not like that. "Your body," he says, "is a story book... You're the only one who can write it." And so I think... Maybe I should write a sequel?
I recall that I was invited to Rapture on account of my "resilient valor, spoken leadership, and loyalty to the development of (myself)". Ryan personally noted that it was a triumph "unlike that of the regular dames". Now I'm not implying Mr. Ryan is a sexist, but the old-fashioned lens through which he sees women is black and white. You're either a dame, or you're damn near a goddess. But I could do without the diamonds and pearls. When I shake Ryan's hand, it'll be because of the penny in my pocket, not some silly double standard. Mr. Ryan will be giving a speech down by Titan Falls this evening, I'll be in attendance... Maybe if I'm lucky I'll catch his eye on account of my class and not my ass.