The strobe lights in the hallway thrummed, casting erie red shades across the familiar metal grated halls and passageways of the Enoch. Marcus walked at a swift pace towards the port-side airlock, where Penske, his immediate superior, told him Locke would be returning. As he walked, he found himself joined by others, such as workmen, and he recognized the assistant gunner Mason, who he believed was supposed to be asleep right now. They must all have heard about Locke returning with a "guest." While the airlock opening wasn't a big deal, as the marines would often cycle out on recon duty, bringing someone new into the tank was unheard of. The planet was dead; no known colonies existed for either side. Did Locke discover a deserter from another friendly tank? Was it another marine that had gotten into a bad situation? Or was it an enemy that Locke had captured, and was to be interrogated?

Marcus reached the port-side airlock, which had an antechamber for receiving personnel. He was surprised at how many people milled around here, waiting for Locke to return. At least a dozen crew and a few officers waited here. Word traveled fast in the tank, apparently. He looked around for Penske. He saw Ginovsky, the large man he ran into earlier, who was smoking his pipe off to the side. He easily could see over the heads of others, so he had no need to crane his head. He was lucky there was a commotion going on; Shaw and Yukon often chewed him out over his pipe smoke, as it wasn't allowed on the close-quartered tank. Marcus saw Mason, the assistant gunner, who most definitely rolled out of bed for this, his shock of blond hair looking like some critter had made a nest in it. However, credit to his training, he looked wide-awake and alert, with no trace of bleary-eyedness. Marcus saw others he knew, such as workman Van Pelt, another marine he recognized, Ghi, and the assistant driver, Keyasa.

A strong voice like a whip crack yelled from behind him.

"Commander on deck! Make way for the commander!"

As if the floor had suddenly become electrified, crew and officers alike stepped aside and saluted, Marcus included, for the arrival of the commander. Preceding the commander was the marine captain, Freya Typhon. She was an imposing figure, scarred and stern as she was. She was older, around perhaps in her late 40's or early 50's, and she wore her greying hair in a braid behind her. She was one of the few original surviving members of the Enoch after the Battle at Myr's Bridge. As such, she was reverred and respected the tank over. However, this did not mean that she took it easy on her marines and other crew members. While every crewman had a superior that would normally discipline them if they stepped out of line, Typhon was well known for going out of her way to keep every branch of the tank in line, even bypassing other officers of arguably equal rank to do so. But what could they do? Typhon was as much of a war hero as they come. There were even rumors she had a storied history even before serving on the Enoch...

But behind Typhon strode the commander. While officers like Typhon were reverred and respected, the commander was worshipped by many. His tactical prowess and leadership acumen had saved the Enoch and her crew countless times during his lengthy tenure as her commander. He was tall and lanky, and was most certainly not the warrior type that Typhon was. But he made up for it with his brains. He was brilliant, and everybody on the tank knew it. He was also older, as most officers tended to be, but not quite as ancient as Madi or Killigrew. He was younger than Typhon, in his mid 40's. He had a square jaw, a stern expression, and was always clean-shaven and well-kempt. His eyes were gray, though not without warmth.

Commander Wyatt cleared his throat and spoke to the marine stationed at the door awaiting Locke's return.

"Marine Brogers, how far out is Marine Locke?"

Chera Brogers, the marine in question, responded while at attention.

"He sent his signal fifteen minutes ago, sir, as is customary. He should be here any second now, if he's traveling at his usual pace."

The commander nodded, and the room was silent. Bootsman Yukon, in charge of most crew in some regard, spoke to the commander.

"Do you want me to send everyone away, commander? No need for the crew to gawk at Locke and... our guest." The commander shook his head.

"No, they should hear what Locke and our guest have to say, so that there's no opportunity for incorrect rumors to spread across the tank." The older man looked at the gathered crew that still stood at attention in the antechamber.

"As we all know, there are no secrets aboard the Enoch. Word would get out eventually, and I want that word to be correct." So they stood in silence, still and unmoving for several more minutes. Marcus realized that if the "guest" in question were an enemy, they likely wouldn't be in salute and attention to receive the individual, so the person Locke brought with him was most likely a friendly. This just raised more questions in his head, though he didn't have time to go through them all before he heard a hiss at the airlock door.

"He's here," said Brogers. The airlock clunked and the noise level in the antechamber grew. Marcus knew it was storming outside again, and the outside airlock door was open. After a brief moment, the sound dimmed, and they heard another clunk, and then a hiss. Shortly after, the inner door swung open. Two figures stepped forward into the antechamber. It was Locke, most certainly, and he was helping someone else to walk. The guest was barely standing, and clutched its side. Locke helped the individual onto the ground, and the surgeon, Dr. Thaler, rushed to the person's side. Locke took off his gas mask with a deep breath, revealing a stubbled face that was dirty and looked sleep deprived. Locke was in his early 30's, and was conventionally handsome. He had dark hair, and hazel eyes that warmed his face. He also had a noticeable tooth gap that some of the crew joshed him about in good fun, and he never took it seriously.

Locke saluted Commander Wyatt and Captain Typhon. They nodded, and Typhon spoke to the crew at large.

"At ease. Locke, report. You're back a week before you're due."

The crew relaxed as much as they could in front of an officer, with their hands clasped behind their backs. Much to Marcus' amusement, he saw Ginovsky still puffed away at his pipe, and leaned against a bulkhead. The man was peerless.

"Yes ma'am. I'm afraid I come back with bad news. Two days ago, I happened upon the just-killed wreck of a friendly tank." The crew was silent before, but now you could hear a pindrop. The antechamber collectively held their breaths. Who was it?

"Did you identify the tank?" Commander Wyatt asked. Locke nodded forlornly.

"Yessir. It was the Methuselah, sir." The crew stood in shock, Marcus included. The Methuselah? The tank was legendary, and world-reknowned. It was the oldest surviving tank, at 96 years of almost unending service to the Earth-Mars Coalition. It had earned its name and then some, and for it to be lost was unthinkable; most tankers, being a superstitious sort, imagined the Methuselah was unkillable. Commander Wyatt nodded slowly, no emotion showing on his face.

"I imagine you explored the wreckage? Were there any survivors?" Locke shook his in in the negative.

"No sir, other than this marine." Doctor Thaler removed the unkown marine's helmet to reveal an auburn head of hair, and the pale face of a woman. Her eyes flickered, and she looked to be barely conscious.

"This is Marine Kee McCullagh of the Methuselah. She was out scouting when the Methuselah was lost, so she claims she has no knowledge of what happened to the tank. When I found her, she was attempting to bury the bodies of her compatriots, but the corpses had attracted local wildlife, and she was wounded while trying to defend the bodies. I helped her fight off the wildlife, and bury the bodies. We then made our way to this rendezvous point. She has deteriorated greatly since then. Because of her wounds, I was unable to explore the wreckage, but I believe her when she says there were no survivors." Locke shook his head.

"I bound her wounds, but the bleeding only became worse as the days passed. This morning I could barely rouse her from her sleep, and we moved at barely a crawl. It was only when we saw the Enoch that she pepped up, and we made it inside."

Marcus realized that the dark suit that marines wore outside into the sand wasn't supposed to be quite so dark, and that her right side seemed to be drenched in what must be blood. Doctor Thaler looked up to Commander Wyatt.

"She's lost a lot of blood, and needs a transfusion immediately. I also believe her wound is infected, and if she's been like this for two days, she needs medical attention yesterday," the doctor said. Commander Wyatt nodded and spoke.

"Bootsman Yukon, get this marine to the medbay with haste." The bootsman nodded and began barking orders. In a flash, the crew were moving like they were on fire. Someone grabbed a stretcher from a side closet, and several including Ginovsky, who still clutched his pipe between his teeth grabbed on to carry the wounded marine away. At Yukon's orders, the crew began to disperse, but not before Commander Wyatt and Captain Typhon, with Locke in tow, left the antechamber. Marcus didn't get the opportunity to catch Locke's eye as he walked out to be debriefed in front of the other officers. Marcus waited for the wounded marine to be carried out before he left. Before he could though, his eyes fell on Mason, the assistant gunner. The man leaned against the wall, looking into space, a terrible expression on his face. Marcus didn't know the man well, but the look haunted him, so he walked over to him and spoke.

"Hey Mason, is everything ok? You look... upset. All good?" Mason slowly turned his head towards Marcus his eyes wide.

"My brother was on the Methuselah. I guess he's dead now, huh?" Marcus was shocked. He hung his head.

"I don't know many, he could have made it out. Locke didn't do a manifest headcount, you know?" Silas Mason shook his head.

"Even if he lived, he would have been executed. He was chief gunner on the Methuselah. No way the enemy would let him live." Tears welled in his eyes, and he hung his head. He put his hands to his face and began to sob. Marcus' heart ached for the man, who was around the same age as him. He was an only child, and didn't know quite what Mason was going through, but Marcus heard Silas was a good guy, and he knew he didn't deserve this. Marcus, trying to be kind, put his arm around Mason's shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.

"I'm sorry Mason. It'll be alright." He realized that "it'll be alright" wasn't quite the right thing to say when someone's brother was killed on the battlefield, and he struggled with what to say next. The last few stragglers that remained in the airlock antechamber quieted their conversations with each other, noticing Mason's duress, but they made no effort to comfort him as Marcus did. They slowly shuffled out of the room awkardly. Marcus held them no grudge for this. Most of them also had family and friends aboard other tanks, and comforting Mason would force them to face their own fears: that someday their loved ones would meet a gory fate at the hands of an enemy tank crew.

"You were asleep, off your shift right? Let's get you back to bed, man." Marcus walked Mason back to the crew quarters he shared with others, and Mason climbed into an upper bunk. He slowly curled up and sobbed quietly. Marcus saw others were awakened by the commotion the two were making, but none of them did or said anything about it. They likely knew what was going on from guesswork. Marcus made sure Mason was safely in bed before he left. He closed the doorway to the crewquarters and sighed.

Fuck, he thought. He was expecting something exciting to happen with Locke's return, but this wasn't quite what he expected. The loss of the Methuselah overshadowed any excitement he may have had. The loss of other tanks wasn't necessarily common, though it was inevitable. Any news of a lost comrade tank usually meant someone lost a loved one aboard the destroyed vessel.

Marcus walked back to his duties at his workstation, in the engineering bay. As he entered, he saw his overseer, Penske, sitting at her workstation, tinkering with something. She turned to him.

"Welcome back, Rhyne. What happened? Give me all the juicy details. Was it a deserter? Enemy marine? Spill." She grinned at the possibilities of gossip. Meghan Penske was in her early 50's, though her hair was still the chestnut brown color Marcus guessed it had always been. While Marcus kept his head clean-shaven, Penske kept hers short. Long hair was unacceptable in the engineering world; all it took was one rotating shaft or turning cog to catch a lock of hair, and that person was meat paste. Penske had claimed to see it happen once or twice. They both wore the same green jumpsuits, to protect them from hot oil or steam. Marcus shook his head.

"The Methuselah's dead. All hands lost, except a single marine that was out scouting. She's in the infirmary in serious condition. Locke's debriefing the officers now." Penske's grin faded. This was bad news indeed.

"Well godsdamn. Fuck. The Methuselah, dead. Unbelievable." She shook her head, staring off into space. Marcus spoke up, as he felt the Enoch begin to move again. They were under way.

"Why weren't you there? You told me about Locke coming back, I imagined you'd see for yourself first hand." Penske smiled a little bit despite herself.

"Why would I go when I have you to collect delicious tidbits and gossip? I'm no layabout like you, I have work to do. And now so do you." She gestured to Marcus' workstation, which had acquired new bits of mechanical detritus since he left. She must have found new things for him to work on. Marcus nodded, sat down at his workstation, and got down to it. Penske, likewise, did the same. The garbage disposal was left to the side, for another day, though Marcus knew Moneaux was going to ask about it soon. It would have to wait, because a frustrating task was not on Marcus' desired list of things to do at the moment. Instead, he found something he knew he could do easily, with some time. In the meanwhile, his mind wandered, as fixing things like this often led to a sort of meditative state for Marcus.

What had killed the Methuselah? There were many enemies afield, but if Marcus understood what his fellow crewmates told him, the Enoch, because of her advanced age, was in something of a backline at the moment. Duels could and did happen, but they were somewhat uncommon recently, unlike newer tanks that had yet to prove themselves, and often either patrolled the front lines looking for trouble, or dove head-long into enemey territory to cause mischief. The decision was usually made for them by Mother Base, and Marcus figured the same was for the Enoch and the Methuselah. The old tanks were proven warriors, and could hold the backline in case the frontline fell, or faced a gap. So the fact that the Methuselah had perished meant an enemy tank had dived behind their frontlines, sneaking past those guardian tanks for some purpose. Was the dead tank caught off guard? Ambushed? Lured into a trap? Marcus had little knowledge of the told tank and her crew except by legend and hearsay. He had no idea that Mason's brother served on the lost tank, or that he was chief gunner, which was a lofty and highly coveted title.

The more Marcus thought about it, the more the idea perplexed him. What could have possibly killed such a venerable old tank, and without anyone else knowing about it? The word of its loss would most certainly have gotten out if another tank had discovered the wreckage, and Marcus doubted the officers would have tried to supress the knowledge of the Methuselah's loss, for such a loss would likely enrage the crew and lead them to work harder, rather than dempen morale. This was the general consensus of the Enoch whenever a friendly tank was killed. Deep in thought, Marcus was roused from his morbid musings by Penske, who spoke up suddenly after nearly two hours of silence.

"I know you're thinking about it, because I'm thinking about it too. Who, or what, could have killed the Methuselah?"

He turned around to look at her, and she slowly did the same. She smiled, but it was a black smile, with no mirth.

"And if an enemy tank killed the Methuselah just a few days ago, where is it now?"