&nbsp; &nbsp;The quartermaster pushed Rhodey down to the loading bay, the wheelchair&#8217;s wheels catching on the steel walkways.<br /> &#8220;The new War Machine just arrived from Stark Industries,&#8221; he explained. &#8220;Uh. There&#8217;s been a few changes in your absence. Mandated from on high, you understand&#8230;&#8221;<br /> &#8220;All I care about is standing on my own two feet again,&#8221; Rhodes said eagerly. &#8220;What did they do, take the minigun out?&#8221;<br /> &#8220;Err, no, her capabilities the same as they were."<br /> "'Her'?"<br /> "Top brass think the US military has an image problem. Especially in the Middle East. &#8216;War Machine&#8217;? Too aggressive. Too impersonal. If we&#8217;re going to win hearts and minds, we need something softer. More culturally sensitive.&#8221;<br /> The armor stood beside the shipping crate in the loading bay, glossy and new and very, very pink.<br /> "She'll win hearts alright," the quartermaster said with a low whistle, admiring the elegant design as he pushed the wheelchair around to the open back of the suit. "If the neural clamps take, we should be able to get you deployed within the hour." He slid his muscular arms under Rhodes armpits, straining to lift the paraplegic hero inside.<br /> Rhodes remained resolutely seated. "I'm not wearing that."<br /> "Can't say I blame you," the man nodded, letting him slump back down. "So I'll go radio the squad pinned down in Kabul that War Maiden isn't coming to extract them then..."<br /> Rhodes ground his teeth and sighed, reaching up to grab the broad steel hips of the suit and haul himself inside. "The things I do for my country..."