If you asked the average person whether they would stick their hand into the pain box from Dune knowing they had a higher chance of getting Gom Jabbared than meeting the love of their life, they’d probably say no, provided their parents loved them enough. Yet we Hinge, Bumble and Grind(r) our way through a digital sea of ne’er-do-wells, timewasters and unsavoury charlatans, hoping to find a nourishing blade of hay among a stack of poisoned needles. Safe to say I have no faith in online dating, but I’m not too proud to admit that I’d change my tune if the thick Warframe slid into my DMs. 

For the uninitiated, Warframe is like Evangelion if the biomechs were smaller and on Zoloft. The Warframes themselves have different specialisms, but all you need to know is there’s a buff lady one and she absolutely fucks. 

Hildryn’s whole deal is shields: she can siphon shields from enemies! Give shields to enemies! Fly around and crush people from the sheer force of a woman who knows who she is and what she’s about! I 90% trust that she won’t kill me, and in that remaining 10% is whatever goes through people’s heads when they ask Rhea Ripley to step on them. What I’m saying is that Hildryn looks like a good time, and also that she should get to installing a SIM card in that helmet so she can call me. 

I think we’d have plenty to offer one another. Hildryn is capable, strong and protective, and I am a creative freelancer with IBS. I could cheer her on from the safety of our spacecraft as she mows down Grineers, and she could encourage me as I struggle to send LinkedIn requests to people I already know. Perhaps one day we could retire together, and make a modest living farming Roombas and harvesting their pelts. It’d be wonderful. We’d be wonderful.

And, hey, nobody’s perfect. I’m sure Hildryn has bad habits and foibles like any other partner. But she’s also got thighs like grain silos, which would make the foibles considerably easier to ignore. And before anyone asks, the Balefire Chargers stay on.