RP: Reactivated Reactivated Intermission: Cats n' Scrap

The drone hovered before the woman's still form. She was breathing but had shown little signs of stirring today-though she'd been lucid a few times from what he'd heard. Hovering closer, Steiner started down at Tacho, focusing in on where the bandages covered her eye, listening to the steady blips of the monitoring equipment, before sighing. "You are an Ancestor's Damned fool, Tacho." He stated, before extending a small tool and administering a slight electric shock-not enough to harm her, but just enough to wake her up...

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Morris sat across from the woman they'd pulled from the base-they'd stuffed her in a spare brigandine-she almost Mike's size-before laying her in a stretcher-a rifle pointed at her in the event she woke and turned hostile-they'd reached the base without incident-Flamethrower making good time despite the balky engine. As they entered the gantry, she'd woken up as he'd picked her up, leading to their current predicament over the last day or so. The neko's bright blue eyes watched him with a degree of wary curiosity, almost like Helena did whenever he'd started playing with her. The man beside him, one of the knights with the Watch, sighed. ("What do you think?") Morris asked, not taking his eyes of her in the event she turned out to be a lot more dangerous than she was letting on. ("Based on her behavior and the information the techs were able to pull?") The man shrugged, before pulling a small piece of paper and setting it in front of him; he picked it up and read it as the man contiuned. ("She's a freshie-was supposed to be shunted off to some base or another before we hit them-likely would've wound up dead if you hadn't pulled her.") The big man looked back up at her-so she was little more than a child?

Ashes and fire-child soldiers weren't unheard of—there were plenty of unscrupulous individuals out there who were willing to use them, but the girl looked closer in age to his own son than a babe fresh out of the womb. ("So what now?") He asked, dumbfounded at what he'd heard. ("Hell if I know, grandmaster's willing to give her parole given the circumstances once he's finished with the Norian-until then she's your problem.") The kinght thought for a moment before adding: ("He also told me to tell you that you and the rest of Onyx need to claim your salvage shares before the rest goes to us and the techs.") Morris nodded before looking back to the woman as the man left.

"Grandmaster's willing to give you parole if you behave yourself," The Yeoman-Sergant said, pulling a flask from his belt and taking a swig-the liquor, some whiskey or another that had more in common with paint thinner than anything-burned its way down his throat. The woman tilted her head-clearly curious about the flask's contents-he held it out-to which she took it gingerly before peering into the cap-a brief sniff followed by a sneeze-before she took a great, mighty swig.

Morris winced as she began to cough violently, tears streaming down her face. Walking around the table and relieving the neko of the flask as he patted her on the back. "It's alright, stuff was a little strong." The big man admitted, before capping it. Well, this was one way to spend his downtime...Freya would hopefully understand; despite the numerous bawdy jokes he knew were being made at his expense...

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Down in the gantry, the techs were still tallying the salvage and blueprints they'd found...tanks, both damaged, pristine and unassembled were being towed in while the base they'd raided was being stripped for everything it was worth-even the rebar and concrete as they tore it down section by section was being repurposed-ground down or rounded up for reforging...

Mike approached the woman from behind, slipping a leather jacket off her shoulders. The knife she had stolen found its way off her belt and onto the table in front of the woman, her jacket wrapped around her shoulders.

"You don't give a slave a weapon, right? What she does with it is her choice. Just like her life, now." She sat on the table where she was in easy reach if th| squid kitten chose to turn violent. But Mike's stature was one that could never be mistaken for weakness. "I could use her in the greenhouse if she doesn't want to be just a trooper. I'll even teach her Valhallan. But I got a lot of teaching to do. Oh. Hey, how many salvage shares would it take to get the best goddamn sniper rifle the gribblies had in that place? Bonus points for all the ammo they had for it. Hell, I'd settle for one of their spotter networks so I can sight in with you guys' body cameras. Gets me juicier ranged shots."

Auli’i stood there, her sharp amber eyes narrowing slightly as she and the other Iron Company smiths examined the chaotic pile of salvage hauled back from the battlefield. Scraps of mangled plating, scorched circuitry, and twisted hydraulics lay scattered before them like a graveyard of machinery. Her tail swished behind her, a languid motion betraying her boredom, until her gaze landed on something that sparked her interest: a cluster of power armor parts. Among the debris, she recognized pieces of reinforced plating, a damaged servo-arm, and the remnants of a neural interface module.

Her ears perked up as a flicker of excitement coursed through her. These weren’t just random scraps; they were exactly what she needed for her personal project—a power armor design tailored to her unique needs. Unlike the standard models issued to Iron Company personnel, she envisioned something versatile, a suit that could handle both the ferocity of combat and the meticulous demands of technical work. Her mind buzzed with possibilities as she mentally fit the pieces into her design.

“Five shares,” she declared, her voice calm but resolute as she pointed toward the pile. It was no small expense—one-third of her allotted salvage—but it would be worth it. The quartermaster made a note of her claim, and soon, the parts were loaded onto a battered but functional trolley. She gripped its handles and began pushing it toward her workspace, the soft hum of the trolley's hover mechanisms mixing with the faint echoes of activity in the base.

The corridor to her workshop stretched before her, dimly lit and lined with worn posters of past battles and company slogans. As she walked, she couldn't help but let her thoughts drift. Her workspace was her sanctuary, a cluttered but organized haven filled with tools, half-assembled gadgets, and the skeletal beginnings of her power armor project. The project had been in her head for months now, but these parts—especially the neural interface—would finally allow her to move forward.

She imagined the suit taking shape: compact but durable, with modular attachments for technical work. A welding torch here, a diagnostic scanner there. The plating would need to balance protection with flexibility, allowing her to crouch and work on intricate repairs without compromising defense. The neural interface would be the crown jewel, making the suit an extension of her own movements, enhancing her dexterity and reaction time. As the trolley glided to a stop in front of her workshop, she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. She brushed a lock of her copper-colored hair out of her face, her tail swishing with anticipation. Now the real work could begin.