A few days later, Marcus was tasked with checking on the port sponson.

"You've done it a dozen times already, so you won't need my help," said Penske. "I'm going to put the finishing touches on the Chuma, and then I'll test the starboard sponson." She handed him a datapad. "Fill out the checklist, and then I suppose it'll be lunchtime. I'll let you know what else we're doing today then," she said. Marcus nodded, looking at the datapad. Just as she had said, the datapad had a checklist for testing the sponson.

"Alright, consider it done," Marcus said, hooking the datapad to his toolbelt. He left the engineering bay and walked towards the port sponson. He had already visited the galley and retrieved his daily coffee, and had consumed half of it. He considered dropping by and grabbing another cup, but decided against it, and went on his way. Upon reaching the sponson, which was two levels above the "common areas" of the Enoch, he pulled the lever that opened the sponson's blastdoor. It hissed, and slowly opened. Marcus clicked his tongue. Too slowly, he thought. He'd have to check the actuators. He lifted the datapad from his belt, and scrolled down the checklist. Sure enough, "functioning blastdoors" was on the list. He shook his head, and frowned. He would have to fix it at some point; if someone needed to get out of the sponson quickly for whatever reason, this slowness could prove fatal.

Once the door had opened, he walked inside the sponson airlock. The door closed faster than it opened, which was a good sign. Marcus waited in the small airlock, which was large enough to accomodate maybe two people comfortably. It was about the size of a typical elevator car. He cycled the airlock, waiting. The room hissed, normalizing. The sponson was pressurized for crew comfort, which was amazing in and of itself, but the airlock existed in case of a hull breach in the sponson itself. The exterior blastdoor opened as it should, and Marcus stepped into the sponson.

The sponson was a small extension out from the tank's hull. It was more common on older tanks, Marcus recalled, as the older tanks were more likely to face and fight boarders that would try to fight their way inside the tank. Back in the old days, before the nukes fell, Marcus mused. He had learned the history of Harmattan extensively in training; the hellish first decades of fighting on the planet were beyond brutal. All rights afforded combatants on Earth and Mars were forfeit here. Chemical warefare, biological warefare, inhumane torture methods, trench warefare, flame weaponry, and more had been used to murder fellow human beings on the planet's surface. The war sometimes devolved into a war of attrition back then, and sides sometimes built extensive trenches and bunker systems to protect themselves.

Marcus shuddered. His brief foray onto the planet's surface had been bad as it was, and he'd almost died multiple times in a short period just from wildlife. He couldn't imagine how it must have been to fear the wildlife and the existence of enemy combatants trying to gun you down. He shook his head, deciding to get back to his task. The sponson was a small room, with a chair and gunnery station. The sponson, being designed to repel boarders, featured a massive 20mm caseless quad-barreled autocannon, which was currently somewhat recessed into the sponson's hull. The sponson in question had originally only featured a single small slitted window through which to see, but the Enoch had seen a couple of refits since the old days, and had been modified to be just a bit more modern. Now, cameras and sensors on the outside of the sponson relayed visual information to a series of terminal screens inside, much like how the Ringlefinch and Hrungnir suits worked. Rather than relying on the weaknesses and limits of human vision, technology had been administered to bridge that biological fault.

Marcus sat at the gunnery station, and radioed the bridge from the small radio next to the station.

"Bridge, this is Port Sponson, administering scheduled tech checks, over." He looked back at the datapad, waiting for a response.

"Affirm, Port Sponson, continue as needed, over." The response crackled, and Marcus couldn't identify the voice. He shrugged, and went about his task. He began the slow process of going through the station's startup sequences. He would flip a switch, of twist a toggle, and then check the datapad if he received the proper response. Everything seemed to be working in acceptable perameters, so he moved on to the final four largest tests. First, he flipped a toggle. With a mechanical wheeze, the autogun slid down its track, reaching the end of its rails. More modern tanks, if they even had sponsons at all, would have stations completely removed from the gun itself, so that if the sponson itself were destroyed, the gunner inside would be completely safe, more likely than not. However, the Enoch being the age that she was, the designers were more interested in keeping the autogun firing as long as possible, which Marcus figured he understood. In the old days, when boarders would try to rush a tank during a moment of weakness, the sponsons were usually the only thing capable of keeping them away, aside from countermeasures such as flares and sealing the airlocks. The first test done, Marcus moved onto the second. He grabbed the twin sticks that actuated the gun, and tested its range of motion. He watched the cameras and saw the autogun had a good range of motion. He checked that off of the checklist. He flipped up a red cap, and flipped another toggle. A red light came on, indicating the autogun's safety had been disengaged, and was ready to fire. Marcus radioed the bridge again.

"Bridge, this is Port Sponson again. Confirming permission to test autogun's firing ability, over." He sat, fingers on the trigger, waiting.

"Port Sponson, this is Bridge. You have the go ahead. Two short bursts, please, over." The response came. Marcus grinned, and squeezed the trigger quickly, twice. The autogun roared, sending rounds out into the howling winds. Even with the sponson's window being as small as it was, the flash from the autogun's muzzle still light up the small dark room. With the tests completed, Marcus put the safety on again. The red light dimmed, and went out.

"Brige, this is Port Sponson again. Test successful, retracting autogun, over," he said. The radio sat silent a moment before crackling to life.

"That's affirmative, Port Sponson, over." Once again, Marcus couldn't place the voice over the radio. Was it Shaw? Burns? He shrugged, unsure. He reversed the autogun's activation list, retracting the autogun and powering the station down. While modern warefare on Harmattan hadn't seen boarding actions in many years, Wyatt was still adamant that the sponsons receive regular checkups and maintanence, just in case. I wonder if it had anything to do with Myr's Bridge, he wondered. Wyatt had been there, and if it had been as bad as Penske implied, he wouldn't be surprised if the older man was a little bit paranoid.

The young engineer left the sponson, entering the airlock that seperated the weapons platform from the rest of the tank. The sponson was a big target, and it couldn't be a weakness in the hull if it was destroyed. The airlock door closed behind him, and the door ahead of him hissed. It opened slowly again, and Marcus shook his head. Yeah, I'm going to have to tell Penske about that, he thought. He had to tell Penske about any repairs to be done, as she allocated his time generally, and she was also the sole individual aboard capable of doling out spare parts. If she said it wasn't worth the parts, it wouldn't be touched. Marcus was on his way to find Penske when the tank's intercom chimed a tone. Instantly, Marcus stopped and listened. Such a tone indicated the crew at large was being addressed by Wyatt. After a brief second, the intercom crackled.

"Attention, all hands, attention." The voice was Shaw's, and it repeated twice more. Everyone was to hear this. "Your commander has an announcement to make." More crackling resumed from the intercom, before Wyatt's voice emerged from the old speaker.

"This is Commander Wyatt. As you all know, less than a week ago, we received word that the EMCT Methuselah had been rendered immobile and inoperable by an enemy tank, and all hands aboard had been killed." Except McCullagh, Marcus thought, but Wyatt didn't mention her. "An expedition was sent out to determine her cause of death, but the expedition was met with adversity. Due to this adversity, Assistant Gunner Silas Mason was killed in action. Due to intervening circumstances, his body was not recovered, and his body was aboard the Methuselah when it was destroyed by atomic fire. Despite this, however, we will be holding a service later in the crematorium to honor his duty. It will be held tonight, at eighteen-hundred hours. All hands are welcome to attend."

Marcus sighed, his mood soured by the announcement. He hadn't thought about the lack of a service for Mason until now, and he felt bad about it. He realized that he had avoided thinking about the lost gunner, and had completely ignored the fact that they hadn't held a service for him yet. I wonder why... Marcus wondered. It had been several days since they had returned from the ill-fated expedition, and it was only now that they announced a service be held for him. The intercom crackled, and Wyatt continued.

"We will also be holding a service honoring all of the lives lost aboard the Methuselah. The loss of such a venerated tank and crew will not go without mourning." The intercom was silent for a moment, before continuing. "We have been instructed by Command to pursue the tank that they believe defeated the Methuselah in combat. According to Intelligence, the enemy tank in question, which has been dubbed the Cain, is making a dash for friendly lines. We do not know what the Cain was doing this far behind our lines, or how it managed to get here without another tank seeing it, but this action will not go without recompense. We will catch this enemy tank, and we will destroy it." Marcus heard cheering down the hall. This is why they didn't hold a service until now, Marcus thought. To stoke up as much enthusiasm as possible when we received our orders. He shook his head. It was a dirty move, he figured, but Wyatt was a good commander, so he most likely had a reason.

"We have also been informed by Command that we are now the oldest remaining tank functioning on the front. As such, we have inherited the Methuselah's motto." Marcus blinked. Previously, the motto had been something in latin he could barely pronounce, and he usually mumbled it whenever it was required. The intercom continued. "The Enoch's old motto is being retired, and we will inherit the Methuselah's mantle. So, 'The Enoch Remains.'" Marcus mouthed the words of the Enoch's new motto. The Enoch Remains. He liked it, mainly because it was much easier to pronounce than whatever the old motto was.

"Thank you for your continued hard work and service, " Wyatt continued. "May we bring the killer of the Methuselah to justice." The intercom ceased its crackling, and the tone chimed out again, signaling the end of the address. The Enoch Remains, Marcus mouthed again. He stood, deep in thought a moment, before he began making his way to Penske as he had been previously. He descended the flights of stairs required to return the common floor of the tank. Halfway down his second flight of stairs, a lurch in the tank almost caused him to fall down the stairs, if he hadn't kept a hand on the railing. He felt the Enoch swing to one side, and then accelerate. So the hunt is on, Marcus thought. This is high gear, for sure. The tank sped up, settling at its higher speed. He heard the whine of the treads and drivetrain louder now, over the other usual hisses and rumbles the tank usually made. He finished descending the staircase, heading to the starboard sponson.

As he passed the crew quarters, however, he was stopped.

"Hey, Rhyne! You've got a minute, right?" It was Van Pelt, sitting on a bunk with a mug of something hot. She patted a spot on the bunk beside her. Marcus looked down the hall, unsure. He looked back to see that Vidi Vidi, the assistant loader, Daniel Burns, the communications specialist, and Suzoe Keyasa, the assistant driver to Modi were also present, sitting on the bunks around Van Pelt. He saw a massive lump on a bunk up top, and assumed it was Deknost, probably trying to sleep on his break. He shrugged and walked in, sitting down next to Van Pelt as she had suggested.

"Tell us, Marcus, about your expedition to the Methuselah," said Vidi. Marcus had heard that Vidi Vidi was indeed his actual name, and that it actually signified that his name was Vidi, son of Vidi. He wasn't sure what culture the man hailed from, feeling it would be insensitive to ask, but he had dark skin and a jawline most men would kill for. He was tall, but friendly, being one of the more respected members of the crew, much like Locke was. A socialite. Marcus struggled to respond.

"It didn't go as planned, we learned basically nothing," Marcus sputtered. "We lost Mason, and Locke was wounded. We almost lost more." Burns, the communications expert, scoffed.

"We know all that, man," he said. He was in his late twenties, and looked about as average as they came. He was unremarkable in almost every single way, except that his voice was a gorgeous baritone, with rich deep notes that you could feel resonate in your chest. He was perfect for radio, everyone agreed. "There's got to be something you can tell us, something that you discovered. Something that Shaw wouldn't put your balls in a vice for telling us, huh?" Marcus almost shuddered at the thought. I can see him doing that, Marcus thought. He looked up to Deknost.

"I imagine you've already asked Ginovsky up there," he said to the group. Keyasa shook her head.

"He wouldn't say anything," she said. "Even about the marine you guys took with you, the one from the Methuselah. Mc-something, right?" Marcus nodded.

"McCullagh," he said. "Kee McCullagh." Van Pelt poked his arm.

"Ok, tell us about her, then," she said. "She can't be that confidential. They're saying she set the nuke off that destroyed the Methuselah. Is that true?" Marcus felt on the spot. He wasn't sure what he could divulge, as Shaw never mentioned anything about keeping mum. However, Penske's warning from the previous day rang between his ears. Keep your mouth shut, and do your fucking job, she had said. Marcus pursed his lips.

"Look, guys, I'm just the mechanic they asked to pilot the suit. I don't know a whole lot, unless you want to talk about the better points of oil impeller maintenance." he said. The group of gossips were quiet, before Vidi spoke up again.

"We've all seen that fancy new suit you have," said the assistant loader. "They say you don't get such a suit unless you're special forces. So what was it doing on the Methuselah?" Marcus balked.

"I... I'm not sure," said the young engineer. He stood up, his anxiety rising. "Look guys, all I know is that something fucky is going on, ok? Intelligence may be involved, here. An investigation." With that, the smiles disappeared from the gossips' faces. They looked down collectively. Dropping Intelligence's name has that effect, I see, thought Marcus. "If I were you, I wouldn't be talking about this shit with an open door nearby, alright?" he said, thumbing towards the open door in question. "If Shaw walked past and heard any of this, who knows how he'd respond. Something's up, and I get the sense we're in the middle of something." He sighed. None of the gossips would maintain eye contact with him. He shook his head.

"To be on the safe side, keep the introspection to a minimum, and do your jobs, and it'll all turn out alright, I guess," he said softly. With that, he left the bunkhouse. Marcus didn't see it, but Deknost rolled over slowly to watch the young engineer leave with one eye half opened. The other crewmembers sat in silence for awhile, before they changed the subject to something irrelevant, such as the contents of dinner, or how soon Ribbonikisch would be upon them. Eventually, they milled out to return to their respective tasks, leaving Deknost alone in his bunk.

Marcus reached the starboard sponson, finding Penske at a nearby terminal, typing away.

"Ah, there you are," she said, holding her hand out for his datapad. He handed it to her, and she looked over it. "Yeah, that door actuator's gotta go. Maybe I'll have you replace that tomorrow," she said aloud. Marcus nodded. She looked up from the datapad. "Excited to be rotating towards the front again?" she asked him. Marcus was unsure.

"I suppose it's a change of pace," he said. Penske snorted.

"Oh yeah, it'll definitely be a change of pace. It's been what, six or seven months since we dueled with another tank? Outside of the latest duel, anyway. If you could call it that." Marcus nodded.

"Yeah, though it may be closer to eight months now," he said. She went back to her terminal, entering something in, checking the datapad frequently. "Don't you think this is suspicious?" he asked her. She turned around.

"Suspicious how?" she asked him, an eyebrow raised. He shrugged.

"An enemy tank kills the Methuselah, we find it, it engages us, but the round does no damage. It then high-tails it to its own lines." Marcus was silent a moment. "Almost as if it wants us to follow it." Penske was quiet a moment as well, before looking Marcus in the eye.

"Don't get it twisted, kid," she said. "There's nothing confusing or suspicious about it. The Cain or whatever the fuck Intelligence has named it is luring us towards their lines on purpose. This is a hunt, the question is whether we are being the hunted, or the hunter."