The Ezekial breathed, churning a steel heart with steam and fire. Oily blood pumped along its copper veins and electricity pulsed the rotar muscles into motion. All in rhythm, all in sync. Human beings...in fact, most living things were merely a bio-engineered machine. When mankind designed their rust stained automatons, it was always with the knowledge of the internal system. Unconsciously every vein and artery had its place and most organs belonged in the primordial state of constant motion. There was no rest, not truly. Machines could be turned off...bodies could only maintain a semi-rejuvenating state of limited functionality.
Alastor awoke sprinting just ahead of his dreams. As always, he was sitting up before realizing where he was, before the sound of the Ezekiel around him slowed his breathing and calmed his heart. There was no memory of the nightmare, only the cold sweat of its passage outlining his skin in shimmering cold. Slipping out of bed, a shrill screech of gears resounded in the cramped quarters before his feet settled on the floor. A host of gold-backed spiders scuttled from the niches and crevasses they had previously hidden, inert. With calculated efficiency, the barely robed Alaster was scrubbed for toxins and dirt, scanned for any anomalies inconsistent with the previous night, and monitored his biological signs for ambient signs of stress, the green lines of cracking pressure mounting in his psychological readings. The engineer sat patiently through the process, using time to draw a line of focus to the world around him. The frigid kiss of steel on his bare feet, the hum of a massive engine only a room away, the clicking walk of his robots. After two minutes he settled to the floor, pushing himself up from it in the usual morning regime of push-ups and sit ups. Unlike Wake, he did not chant. The words repeated in his mind, a mantra encoded into his very brainwaves, but there was no need to speak them to an audience of none.
The computer beyond the bed alerted West of what he'd missed, an efficient alarm of impersonal comfort. The first notice was a priority order, the assignment to Bravo company, a surface team on a reconnaissance mission. Selecting the notice, Alaster noted the weather station and its preliminary problems. The map of the area showed harsh ascents and uneven terrain. Nothing difficult to traverse, but likely difficult for some of the more dangerous Wasteland creatures to find ready habitation. Gargoyles seemed to be an indicated threat, but it was not those stone skinned abominations Alaster gave pause over. The digital representation, along with several detailed pictures of Vagyrs filled the screen for a moment, snarling soundlessly. Alaster frowned, his heart thumping with a renewed tenacity. Quickly closing the pictures, his racing pulse remained...but began to slow.
His aversion to dogs was not a recent acquisition, but a childhood plague. Should he encounter the beasts in the field...
Well, at a range he wasn't so bothered.
His team leader was to be Moro, a smart choice for the assignment but oddly curious to Alaster. As the ship's primary mechanic, his life was too valuable to hitch on a simple foray into the Wastes, especially the first. There were other men who could perform his station, but none were so talented or understood the Ezekiel with such uncanny insight. Still, an order was an order and Alaster was not yet the kind of man to disobey on suspicion of poor judgment.
The other notices were minor occurrences...a reminder of the stowaway now in the medical bay and the invitation for a dice and paper game resent by Wakefield after West had previously declined.
The Counselor was a practical man, but his approach to camaraderie was unorthodox. West was not quite sure what he felt about the man, a bubbling maybe of unformulated opinions and incomplete analysis. It was uncomfortable to operate without an opinion and West made a note to pay closer attention to the actions of the Mission leader in the future. Without a solid opinion on the man, reacting to him would be akin to guessing the origin of Stragglers or the purpose of Echoes.
Dressing for the occasion, West secured a long vibrasword strapped smartly to his back and a long metal case with a sniper rifle packed neatly inside. In this land, reacting to threats at a distance denied them the opportunity to engage on their own terms. It was how he operated when Captain of reconnaissance back in the Bunker and it was, in a way, how he continued to operate both on and off the Wasteland.
The Ezekial purred and roared at once, all in perfect time and tune. The machine was truly a marvel, set out on a maiden voyage and still without even the hint of calibration errors. She had been made for the Wasteland...which was just as well. Lesser machines found this place a deathtrap of rust and damage.
Smiling, mostly to himself, partly to the walls around him, Alaster began his ascent to the hanger. Those along the way greeted him curiously, inability clouding their mind and denying recognition. As most of his time was spent among the gears and fuel, few of the occupants actually spoke to him on a daily basis. Still, he bowed cordially, waving when offered a smile.
"If anyone suggests a pre-mission prayer, I'll fucking kneecap them"
It was one of the first voices rising out of chaos when Alaster entered the hanger, drawing his gaze to a young soldier. Gabriel, yes, Gabriel...he recognized the face from mission files and pictures taken by the S.P.I.D.R since the mission began. Outspoken soldier, hot headed perhaps, but spirit counted for a lot in lengthy Wasteland forays. Most did not understand it was not the body that stood the most risk outside this haven of steel and vigor, but the mind. Gabriel's raucous sarcasm was a double layered vest along the contours of his brain...although that temper spiked the armor with flash powder.
"Let the faithful to their words," Alaster responded to Gabriel, pushing past him "We all seek comfort in different manners."
It was Moro he sought first, stepping past eyes with unspoken questions and standing smartly before the man. His dark eyes were warm, the forced kind of warm that was taught, not naturally acquired. His smile was genuine though, although perhaps too measured.
"Alaster Westerlin, Lead Engineer, reporting." He emphasized the second two words, searching Moro's eyes for signs of unease or confusion. His former background in reconnaissance may not have been known to most, and certainly he had little control of who received what information prior to the Ezekial rolling out. Lead Engineer had little purpose on the open wastes, and the idea of a Vagyr jaw...slavering as it tore through his ligaments and bones, had settled a tremor deep into the base of Alaster's spine. It burrowed there, quiet for now but rattling a snake's warning to the collected engineer that trouble may seal his movement.
Still, first impressions were worth their weight in fuel. So he remained a steadfast arrow of pomp and cordial.
Although the left edge of his faltering smile belied the unease spreading through his mind.
"Sabrina? What the fuck?"
A typical Class 5 personality, Wakefield thought, as he watched Metris go back to her reading. Fiercely independent to the point of hostility, exhibiting male pattern traits indicative of a strong father figure, but no somatic manifestations of abuse. Possibly a single child, the mother absent or deceased, partly or fully educated outside of the academies. She was every inch the granddaughter of Herbert LaCroix.
