Marcus sat on a cot that was beside's Locke's. Locke tried to roll over on his side, but Thaler interjected from his desk.

"No, you're not," the doctor said without getting up. "Lay as still as possible Locke, so that you don't pop your staples. I don't want to stitch you up again." Locke made a face at the doctor, which caused Marcus to smile. Locke settled with merely rolling his head to the side to speak with Marcus.

"How have you been holding up since we got back? Comfy?" Locke said with a grin. Marcus shook his head.

"I've been keeping busy. Repairing the Hrungnir suit we brought back, etc." Marcus said. He purposefully left out the incident with Phillips. He knew Locke would be incensed if he found out. Considering Locke stood up for Marcus before when Phillips was being a jackass, and spent a day in the brig for it, it went without saying that the marine was not fond of Workman Phillips. Locke nodded at Marcus. The young engineer sat for a moment.

"I don't imagine Shaw has been in to see you, has he?" Marcus asked Locke. The marine shook his head.

"No, I know Brogers and Ghi came by to see me yesterday, but I was almost completely out of it. Thaler said the natter narrowly missed puncturing my appendix, so apparently the surgery was a little hairy." The marine chuckled. "Not that I can feel it. Thaler's got me on the good shit." Marcus nodded.

"He'll probably be in to talk to you soon, then," Marcus said, "and since you've known McCullagh the longest, he'll probably drill you extensively on her." Locke's brow furrowed, as if confused.

"McCullagh? What do you mean?" he asked. Marcus suddenly realized something.

"You don't know about her. That they arrested her, and tossed her in the brig." Marcus said. Locke's eyebrows shot up.

"They did what?" he asked, his face mirroring how incredulous he felt. Marcus nodded.

"Yup. Apparently Intelligence lit a fire under Wyatt's ass about the nuke going off, and the Secretary of Defense is involved. McCullagh is currently under suspicion, I imagine, for setting it off." Marcus sat quietly for a moment. "Shaw talked to me yesterday, and I may have unintentionally incriminated her." Locke looked up at the ceiling, his face stoneish.

"They wouldn't arrest her if they didn't have good reason. I refuse to believe that they would use her just as a scapegoat." Locke looked at Marcus. "Do you think she set off the nuke?" Marcus pondered for a few seconds.

"It's possible. If it's not her, I don't know who it could be. There was a period of time where I was in the hold with you, Brogers and Ginovsky were on the bridge looking for intel, and McCullagh went off to 'look for O2 bottles.' Judging from Shaw's reaction, that's when he thinks she armed the nuke and the timer." Locke nodded slowly.

"Ok, I can believe she armed the nuke, but my question is 'why?' What reason would she have for destroying the Methuselah? Why would she want to destroy any evidence for other expeditions?" Locke was quiet for a moment, as was Marcus. After a few tense moments, Marcus spoke up.

"She could be a Seditionist." Marcus said. Locke's jaw muscles locked, and his face became a shade more red. Locke turned his head to the side, sat up somewhat, and spat on the ground.

"Not in the medbay, Locke," Thaler said from his desk, not looking up. Locke ignored him.

"Fucking Seditionists," Locke said with anger on his face, "you may be right, Marcus. This reeks of their handiwork. They could have planted McCullagh as a mole, had her influence the Methuselah into a trap, and the Seditionist tank swooped in and killed her without a chance. You saw that canyon; it wouldn't have gone into that deathtrap without good cause. Fuck, godsdamn her eyes, you may be right." Locke lay there, staring at the ceiling. He shook his head once, and after a few moments, shook his head again, but with more intensity.

"I mean fuck, Marcus! It's been in front of us this whole time! She's the mole! She did it! Only survivor my ass! She purposefully was outside of the Methuselah when she was destroyed. It was no accident, Marcus." Locke turned his head to look Marcus in the eyes. "She's responsible for the loss of thirty souls, plus Mason. He'd be alive right now, if not for her." Marcus' world was turning upside-down. He struggled for resolution.

"I don't know, man. I know it looks iffy, but why would she do it, if she did? What would she gain from it?" Marcus' brow furrowed. He simply wasn't convinced she was at fault. It didn't look good for McCullagh, but this wasn't definitive proof she was guilty, either. Locke shook his head.

"It doesn't matter why she did it, guy. Maybe they paid her good, or maybe they have dirt on her, or maybe they threatened her or her family." Locke went to spit again, but stopped, eyeing Thaler's desk. The doctor was eyeing him back, so Locke laid back down. "Fucking Seditionists. A tank as venerable and long-serving as the Methuselah, gone in an instant, and for what? Fucking toasters, man!" Locke laughed coldly. Marcus looked down. He was an EMC citizen, and he had his reservations about SAPs as much as the rest of of them, but disliked referring to them as "toasters." He felt it was a slur, even though most of his countrymen disagreed.

"You mean SAPs?" Marcus prodded. Locke shook his head.

"Nope, not even close. Toasters at least, fucking tin cans at the most." Locke shook his head again, before looking at Marcus. The young engineer didn't like the look Locke gave him.

"I know you're a gearhead and all, but you're not a toaster lover, are you Marcus?" Locke almost looked venemous. Marcus had never seen this side of his friend before, and it alarmed him.

"No, of course not. They're the whole reason we're here right now," Marcus said, gesturing at the tank at large. "I just... don't hate them." Marcus resisted the urge to shrug. Locke blinked at this response, saying nothing. The air soured as the conversation idled. Marcus decided to change the subject.

"Hey, can I get you anything? Has Thaler forbidden you from eating anything, for example?" Marcus purposefully chose not to mention the coffee he brought for Locke, which Thaler had taken for himself. Thaler himself spoke up from behind his desk. Speaking of the devil, Marcus thought.

"He can't have anything to difficult to digest. Lots of fiber. Vegetables, etc. No meat or carbs." Thaler again refused to turn from his desktop monitor. He's probably just playing games, the bastard, Marcus thought to himself. Locke made another face at Thaler, his moment of anger apparently passed. He turned to Marcus.

"I definitely wouldn't ask any more of you, considering how much you've done for me already, but I would kill for some roasted carrots right now." Locke said. He made a sprinkling motion with his fingers. "You know, the kind with brown sugar on top." Marcus nodded and smiled.

"Ok man, sure thing. Roasted carrots, with brown sugar on top. I'll drop by sometime with a carton of them. I bet Finn'll cook them up special for you." Marcus said. Locke nodded and smiled back at him. Marcus stood up, prepairng to leave. "I'll let Brogers and Ghi know you're awake, next I see them." The young engineer thumped Locke's shoulder twice, softly. The marine winced. Marcus recoiled, instantly apologetic he hurt his friend. Before he could apologize, however, Locke simply laughed.

"Nah, I'm kidding. I can't feel a thing," he said chuckling.

"Man, fuck you, I hope you get bedsores," said Marcus. The young engineer left the medbay, waving goodbye to Locke. The wounded marine likewise waved back. Marcus walked down the passageway towards the hold, intent on continuing his work on the Hrungnir suit. The Chuma. He walked along, deep in thought about mechanical schematics and how he could improve the suit when someone passing him bodied him with their shoulder. He thumped against the wall, incredulous, looking at the passing person. With a flash of anger, he saw it was Phillips, who scowled at him as he passed. He held a mop in his hands, and was likely off somewhere to clean something, as per Yukon's orders. Bootsman Yukon, in charge of tank cleanliness, logistics, and upkeep, was well-known for his stalwart manner. He didn't take shit from anybody, and that included Phillips. Marcus wouldn't be surprised if he had caught word of Phillips' deviance in the mess hall, and had sent him to some godsforsaken corner of the tank to clean. Marcus knew Phillips would somehow blame him for this, even though he had started the fight in the galley.

Marcus watched him saunter off. He said nothing, but glared at Phillips' back as the larger man walked away. He decided it was best to ignore the miscreant, and continued towards the hold. I wonder if Penske got her own coffee today, he thought to himself as he opened the door to the hold. When it opened, he was startled to see Penske on a stepladder, who was precariously welding something on the front of the Hrungnir suit. He shielded his eyes from the blinding light of the welder, but she stopped almost as soon as he shielded his eyes, likely hearing the hiss of the blastdoor in the hold opening. She looked at him, her customary welding helmet sporting its usual devilish grin, painted by her own hand. She lifted the devil's welding helmet and grinned at him just like her helmet would. She descended the stepladder, and did a "ta-da" motion with her free hand, the other hand still holding the welding implement.

"Well?" she asked him, gesturing towards the Chuma. Marcus walked up to the suit, flabbergast at the progress Penske had made in just the short period of time he had been gone.

"Shit, Penske," he said, "what gave you the idea to do this?" he asked her. In the small time he had been gone, Penske had almost completely cleaned the Hrungnir suit, removed its weaponry, bashed the armored plates back on, and was currently welding more armor on the front. She had even welded a decently-sized spike to the front of the suit, near the suit's "collar bone" would be, if it had one.

"Well, Engineer Rhyne, as your superior officer and mentor, I feel it's my responsibility to teach you a thing or two about a thing or two." She thumped her gloved hand on the front of the suit. It barely made a sound. "This here is a quality weapon of war, understand? But that doesn't mean it can't be... improved." She smiled broadly. "So if you get your hands on a quality weapon of war, it's almost your responsibility to weld shit onto it, and make it better." Marcus shook his head.

"The added weight to the front could knock it off balance, not to mention it'll strain the lifting servos even more. It'll barely be able to open, Penske." He put his hands on his hips, shaking his head again. Penske looked unperturbed. She walked up to him. She was shorter than he was, though not by much. He rinkled his nose at her. She smelled like the death she had been scraping off of the Chuma all day.

"But isn't that part of the fun, kid? I know you got this job for a reason. You and I like solving problems." She thumped his chest now, with a gloved hand. "Problem one: it didn't take long for an adolescent chuma to almost shear an arm off, and if it were serious, it easily could have ripped you from the suit and turned you to paste on the desert sand." Marcus paled somewhat.

"Wait," he said quietly, "what do you mean adolescent chuma? There's no way it wasn't an adult." Penske clicked her tongue at him.

"Oh, no. I talked to Brogers about it, she told me how big it was. Brogers is a good kid, and she's not prone to embellishing like some of the marines." Marcus blinked at this, unsure on how to respond. Even if he had known how to respond, however, Penske didn't give him a chance to. "Nope, judging by the size she said it was, it was definitely a young chuma you killed. An adult would have turned you into canned salami, no two ways about it." She nodded her head, assured by her diagnosis. "Which is why I'm armoring up our little friend here a little more."

She turned back to the Hrungnir suit, kicking the stepladder over a foot or two, to reach a different section of the armor.

"Although the next time you get into a tussle with a chuma, a word of advice. If it's an adult, even a gorgeous suit of armor like this wouldn't last long against a chuma. Nope." She pointed her welding implement at the massive autocannon that came off of the suit, the one with explosive shells. "No, you want to use that, and shoot its knees. Really the only weakness the adults have. And let me tell you, a pain in the fucking ass to shoot while they're running." She nodded to herself. Marcus was gobsmacked.

"So you've fought one before? A chuma?" he asked her. Suddenly, the look of joviality on the older woman's face vanished. She looked into space for a few seconds. Marcus mentally backpedaled, worried he had upset her somehow. Before he could summon an acceptable apology, however, she responded.

"You know I was there on the Enoch at Myr's Bridge, right?" she asked him. Marcus nodded slowly. "I was an assistant engineer like you, back then, and I simply didn't have the experience, the knowledge, the tools, or the parts to get the Enoch back up and running again after the battle." Her voice quietened. "Not many of survived, you know. We took shifts, burning the bodies, but we didn't work fast enough. The wildlife catch on fast, you know?" Marcus didn't respond; he knew it was rhetorical. Penske was silent a moment more before continuing.

"When we agreed we couldn't fix the tank, we radioed for help and waited. They talk about the battle as if the fighting stopping meant that everything was over." Penske shook her head. "For us, that was only the half of it. We had to survive two weeks out there, in the middle of fucking Ribbonokisch, fighting off natters, chumas, manananggal, and even a fucking acheri that found its way inside." Penske looked at Marcus. The young engineer looked back, and was startled by how haunted Penske's eyes looked. The look on her face struck something deep inside of him, and his blood chilled. Penske smiled somewhat, perhaps amused by Marcus' face. "Eventually," she said, "another tank showed up to tow the Enoch back to Mother Base, and rescue us."

"So, yeah, I've killed a chuma or two," she said. "Aim for the knees, regardless of what the manual says to do." She looked back at the Hrungnir suit before looking back at Marcus. "Though many your ripper saw method has some merit. Brogers says you killed it pretty good, maybe we'll put that saw back on the Chuma instead of tossing it on Hansel, which was my original plan." Penske grinned at Marcus again, apparently her old joviality returning. Marcus tried to grin back. Or maybe she's forcing it for my sake, he wondered to himself.

"I looked at the saw you were working on earlier. If you use it for combat again, not that I necessarily recommend it, you'll want to modify it a bit so that it doesn't get so gummed-up with bits, understand?" Marcus nodded. "Keep cleaning it, and when you're satisfied with it, we'll discuss how to keep meaty bits out of the mechanical bits." Marcus nodded again. Penske flipped her welding helmet down, and resumed welding additional armor on the suit. Marcus likewise returned to cleaning the saw, removing the gears, replacing the grease inside, and filing down any burs the saw had acquired during the fight. When he was satisfied with the saw's cleanliness, he called Penske over, and she showed him how to augment the saw with welded pieces of metal to prevent any further bits from gumming up the saw. She sketched him a diagram on the floor with a grease pen, and he set out to complete the augmentations to her specifications. After the metal pieces were cut from stock available in the hold, he welded them together, and bolted the pieces to the saw. He was about to weld the guard permanently to the saw when Penske stopped him.

"It's almost dinner time, Marcus. Let's call it a day, shall we? I'll go check up on the reactor, if you can go fetch us some dinner again." she said to him. Marcus nodded his compliance. He looked at his timepiece, and realized the day had passed without him noticing. He marveled at his inability to keep track of time while working, and left the hold to head towards the mess.

As he walked towards the mess hall, Marcus' thoughts turned to Penske. Marcus had known Penske for only a relatively short amount of time, but he spent most hours with or around her, and now he realized he barely knew her. He knew that she had been one of the few survivors at the Battle at Myr's Bridge, but he hadn't known what her role in it had been, outside of what he assumed based on what he read during training. The battle was legendary, and was used as a lesson during training, regardless of one's eventual role in whichever tank they were assigned to. But he had never asked Penske about it, as he assumed what happened was none of his business. He wondered if Penske opened up to him because he had proven himself reliable on the expedition, or perhaps the combat suit and the dead chuma drudged up old memories she typically repressed.

Whichever the case, he decided that he would do his best to listen to anything his supervisor told him, especially if it was about the older days aboard the Enoch. He liked Penske; she had been an excellent boss, and had gone to bat for him a couple of times. But now he saw a different side to her. Rather than just his boss, and an excellent engineer and mechanic, she was also a survivor of a devestating battle that killed ninety percent of the Enoch's crew. For this, he held a newfound respect for her.

After arriving in the mess, he acquired two plates of food, courtesy of Finn. The cook hadn't said what it was, but it looked like some sort of pasta and faux-meat dish, and it smelled good, so Marcus thanked him and went to the engineering bay. Penske was already there, tinkering on something at her workstation. He handed her her food, for which she mumbled her thanks, as was customary. Marcus ate his plate at his workstation while he tinkered with the garbage disposal, until he eventually decided it was completed. It had been successfully repaired. His meal finished, and the garbage disposal finally repaired, he sat back, pleased with his work. He decided he was tired enough to sleep, so he crawled into his cot, bid Penske a good night, and turned out his light, drawing the curtain over his cot closed. Penske continued to work long into the night, longer than she usually did.

Marcus drifted off into a fitul sleep, where his dreams were encompassed by roaring autocannons, and charging chumas. He didn't awake until the next morning.