Anise Baca is in her mid-sixties. Trim, upright, silver-white at the temples. She runs at a full, confident stride, and the machine assembles around her while she does — one continuous take, no cuts.
The order is fixed: compression layer, leg struts, torso and arms plated together, then the visor seals. Nothing is bolted on ahead of its turn. You can watch it become a machine.
Built to heal, not to fight.
Every surface is functional. Clinical chrome and matte plastic, no spikes, no crest, no blades, no aggressive silhouette anywhere — least of all on the head, which is a smooth dome with a single thin lens strip. The design brief forbids the war-mask read at every step.
Etched into the chestplate is a small caduceus-adjacent emblem, visibly worn and slightly scratched. It is carried over from the original restorative-medicine branding, and it is the one part of the suit nobody has modified. It is also the whole thesis: this device was built to put someone back on their feet.