It knocks the breath from her, has her shoulders hunched by sickening degrees. Her wrist is aching for the pressure that's been suddenly dispersed, leveled out (as Cortana's instructed) with her SMG in hand, more than ready to fire.

Only she doesn't.

Won't, can't— a side effect of being so dazed, as far as outside assumptions go, might be the most likely cause. Still, with her finger hovering uselessly over the trigger, it's enough of a pause to potentially give Cortana the AI equivalent of a heart attack.

"...Soldado?"

It can't be him. Wouldn't be— doesn't look a thing like him except for that scarring, and she swears, peering off across the aiming reticle of her gun, that she can make out the rough shadows of his armor between flesh and sinew.