Several hours after Locke's fateful return to the Enoch, the entire crew was up-to-date on the goings on of his expedition, or as much as the officers would allow the crew to know. Marcus smiled somewhat as his timepiece chimed the hour quietly, indicating supper time for his shift. Despite what Wyatt says, there are most certainly secrets aboard the Enoch, the hungry engineer thought to himself. Classified was classified, and sometimes it was just safer if the crew didn't know exactly what was going on. And, truth be told, the opposite was the same. Sometimes what the officers didn't know wouldn't hurt them. He looked to see Penske still hard at work.

"Dinner time, Penske. Coming?" He asked her. She waved at him as if annoyed.

"I've got ears too, and they hear just fine. I know it's dinnertime. I'm working here; bring me a bowl after," she responded without looking. She continued with her work. Marcus nodded and exited the engineering bay. She often did this, working through meals. If not for Marcus bringing her food often, he was certain she would starve. She's skinny as it is, he thought to himself. He figured he'd ask Finnigan if he could have a little more soup in her bowl. The old cook was a good guy, and he'd probably do it, Marcus figured.

Marcus walked down the steep staircase leading to the engineering bay, and down the hallway towards the galley. As he got closer, the potato soup smell only got stronger. The young man's stomach growled. If a stomach could have an erection, his stomach would have one, he mused. The crew were served two meals a day, breakfast and dinner. They were allowed to snatch snacks from the galley in small quantities during the day, such as crackers or preserved imitation fruit snacks. However, Marcus had skipped breakfast earlier that day to attend to the oil impeller issue, which was grave. Penske, likewise, often skipped breakfast, though she usually grazed on snacks throughout the day ahead of dinner. How someone could go such an extended period of time without a serious thought for food, Marcus couldn't know. The woman was seriously dedicated to her work, which was understandable. As one of the original surviving crew members at the Battle at Myr's Bridge, she often confessed that she felt like the health of the Enoch was her responsibility. For the Enoch to take enough damage to wipe out most of the crew, Marcus could only imagine the pain Penske went through, losing both her comrades and the integrity of the tank. He imagined she was also integral in its reconstruction, but he never had the guts to ask her about what he imagined was a traumatic incident.

The hungry gearhead rounded the corner of the galley, his nose full of savory potato notes. He was practically salivating at the smell alone. The galley was moderately furnashed with cafeteria-style furniture: benches, steel tables, etc. Everything was bolted down in case of rouch terrain, and the tables had small edges that prevented plates and mugs from sliding off if the tank drove at an unusual angle.

There were people here already, and Marcus continued through the doorway so that more people could file in. He recognized the gargantuan workman Deknost, whom most of the crew affectionately referred to only as "Dek." He was currently roaring with laughter at something another workman, Gwen Van Pelt, said. There was another workman in the crew, Philips, but he was rarely seen with the others. Most didn't like him much. Also at the table were the marines Brogers and Ghi, Locke's compatriots. They were likewise engaged with the joke that Van Pelt wove. Marcus was sure it was hilarious, as Van Pelt was a first-class comedian. Marcus was glad that the crew could laugh so soon after hearing such ill news, though he wouldn't be surprised if Van Pelt was being funny for that exact purpose, to help morale. Rather than walk over to get in on the joke, however, Marcus walked over to the galley counter where food was served. Attending the counter was Finnegan Moneaux, whom the most of the crew simply called Finn. The cook was in his late 30's, though he looked much older for some reason. The cook spoke up at Marcus' approach with a small smile creeping across his face.

"Ah, the potato fiend himself. How's it going, Marcus?" The cook began spooning potato soup into a bowl.

"It's going well, Finn, thanks. And I'm no potato fiend, your soup is just amazing," Marcus replied. Now he was genuinely salivating.

"I imagine you're hungry, I didn't see you around breakfast. Urgent fix?" Marcus nodded.

"Oil impeller checkup. It'll need to be replaced soon." Finn chuckled as he handed the bowl to Marcus. He began spooning out another, as he was familiar with Penske's eating habits, or lack thereof.

"I have no idea what the fuck that is, but I know you do, and that's ok with me." Finn leaned close, his smile gone. Marcus likewise felt his smile fade away. Finn not smiling and jovial was rare, and usually serious.

"I heard what you did for Mason, helping during a tough emotional time. Mason's a good kid, and he doesn't deserve this shit. Thank you, Marcus." The young engineer nodded, not sure what to say.

"If you need anything, and I can help, don't hesitate to ask," the cook said, "and don't rush with that garbage disposal. I can work without it for now. I'll see you around." Marcus nodded and mumbled in return. He walked over to the table where marines and workmen sat, and sat down next to Marine Ghi. It sounded like they were all winding down from Van Pelt's latest joke, wiping their eyes amidst eating spoonfuls of potato soup. They all greeted him in turn as he sat down. Marcus put a napkin over Penske's bowl to help preserve the heat, and began to eat. Soon, his stomach no longer ached, and he began to engage in the conversation.

"...so I think we're going to go hunt this thing down. No way we're just going to go on and continue to patrol in the far back while the Methuselah's killer roams freely. There's simply no way. And I imagine Intelligence won't have another tank do it; there's no time. No other allied tank is that close to us, from what I've heard. It has to be us." Marine Brogers said, her bowl empty. Ah, Marcus thought. So the jokes are over. That figures. He wasn't particularly in the mood for war-talk, considering how the day had gone. He had been looking forward to jokes. Oh well, he thought to himself.

"What do you think, Rhyne? Is the Enoch battle-ready? Can we duel confidently?" Marcus suddently realized someone was talking to him. He looked up to see that Dek had asked him the question. All eyes at the table looked at him earnestly. Marcus frowned and ate another bite, thinking. He wasn't opposed to social interactions, but he was no socialite either. Besides, he was damned hungry, and not really interested in this conversation. But he spoke up anyway, as he liked these folks, and it would be rude to ignore Dek.

"Nope. We need spare parts immediately. A duel with an enemy tank, especially one that's capable of downing the Methuselah, would likely end poorly." The table balked at his response. This was obviously not the response they were expecting.

"What parts would we need so badly?" asked Van Pelt. She looked incredulous at the idea that the Enoch wasn't quite battle-ready. The crew trusted Engineering, especially Penske, to keep the tank in tip-top shape. Apparently the rest of the table shared her question, as Marcus heard murmurs and saw nodding from the others.

"We need an oil impeller. The port-front drivetrain is on its last legs because of this. Every day, it's going to get worse. Within a week, we'll be dead on the sand, and if that other tank finds us, we're goners." Marcus continued eating, his head down. The other table members were silent.

"What do we intend to do, then? Return to Mother Base for spare?" Marine Ghi asked him, his bowl now untouched. Marcus shook his head.

"I'm not privy to our exact location, but I imagine it'll take longer than a week to reach Mother Base for the spare. We'd likely have to either sit here and wait for another tank to deliver the part to us, or go as far as we could without permanently damaging the drivetrain system, and then waiting for a runner from Mother Base to deliver the part to us." Marcus shrugged. "I wouldn't know, I don't work in logistics. I just fix the tank."

Marine Brogers spoke up next.

"Wait a second - you're saying we can only travel a week in any direction?" Marcus nodded.

"And within a week, this oil thing is going to break down?" Marcus nodded again.

"And worse, it'll take much of the port-front drivetrain with it," he added. Brogers was silent. Dekonst spoke up.

"What if we get an impeller from another source? One other than Mother Base. One to keep us going for awhile longer? the massive man rumbled quietly to Marcus. Instantly, a spark flashed in the young engineer's skull. His heart raced, as he knew what they had to do. Without a word, forgetting both his half-unfinished bowl and Penske's, he jumped up out of his seat and sprinted out of the room. The crew members still sitting at the table were perplexed at Marcus' leavings, but they knew engineers were usually a little strange, so they simply continued to eat in silence.

Marcus raced down the hallways, practically jumping up the steep staircase to Engineering. He burst through the blast door, out of breath. Penske swiveled around to look at him in surprise from the floor, goggles over her eyes. She must have been welding. Before Marcus could speak, Penske beat him to it.

"Where's my bowl?" she asked incredulously. Marcus shook his head. There wasn't time.

"We need an oil impeller, Penske." The older engineer nodded, with that shocked look still plastered on her face.

"I know where we can get one." Marcus said, his heart beating fast.

"Ok, where?" Penske asked him.

"If it's intact, would an oil impeller from the Methuselah work as a replacement for the one we need?" Penske slowly nodded, understanding exactly what he meant.

"Let's go to the bridge," she said. She removed her goggles and placed her welding torch on the floor. Her project would wait. She walked past Marcus out the door and down the staircase. Marcus followed her earnestly. Without a word, the two traveled through the narrow passageways of the Enoch, past the galley and the crew quarters, until they finally reached the bridge. They climbed the staircase up, and passed through the blast door, which was open most of the time. Marcus had only been on the bridge once before, after repairing Keyasa's timepiece for her. The place always astonished him. It was a far cry from the dirty dingy underbelly of the tank to which he was accustomed. The place was clean, with no visible dirt or grime. Marcus saw Mad Modi himself, the driver, up front with his dozens of levers and wheels, as well as the assistant driver, Suzoe Keyasa, who sat off to the side reading instruments. Lt. Commander Gabriel Shaw was present, sitting near the rear of the bridge, keeping tabs on instruments. Burns, the communications officer, was jotting something down and reviewing what looked like radar. And in the center of it all, sat Commander Kerry Wyatt himself, in his seat behind Modi. Up front was a large screen through which various cameras anchored into the armored hull allowed the bridge to see the outside world.

The sight took Marcus' breath away. The world outside, which he rarely saw despite having lived either above or on the planet his entire life, was a maelstrom of fury and violence. Harmattan was known as a dangerous planet, but the fact that the marines often went out into this stupefied him. On the screen at the front of the bridge, Marcus saw nothing but swirling sands, cascading at the behest of furious winds. Visibility was almost nill, and the only indicator they were actually moving was the occaisional boulder or large rock that sometimes passed the tank by the side. The sun, which should have been plainly visible still, was completely blotted out. Massive floodlights mounted to the hull flooded the storm with light, but the sandstorm seemed to consume the light with impunity. Marcus saw a holographic topographic map illustrated in front of Modi, and the young engineer imagined the old driver used that to maneuver the tank around more than he drove by sight, as it would be far too easy to drive them over a cliff with visibility like this. And Marcus knew storms like this were the norm: clear days on Harmattan were rare and celebrated, usually by a day spent sunbathing. The crew of the Enoch had to take frequent vitamin D pills because even if the crew didn't spend most of their time in a tank that no viewports, the planet wasn't exactly well-lit either.

Mad Modi turned back to see Penske and Marcus standing there.

"Oh hey Marcus! Sorry about the boulder earlier," the old man chuckled to himself heartily, as if the apology itself was part of his grand joke. Before Marcus could respond, Shaw spoke up.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, Penske?" Shaw, Commander Wyatt's right hand man, was a towering lanky man whose appearance was always impeccable. Other than Bootsman Yukon, he was the disciplinary head of the Enoch, and his passingby usually meant someone, somewhere, was about to get chewed out. As such, he had a reputation among the crew for being a hardass, though his disciplinary actions were usually for good reason. He kept his hair short, and wore the uniform appropriate for his station: a grey overcoat with red lapels. He had a narrow face and blue eyes, and he almost looked friendly if the crew didn't know better.

"Engineer Rhyne earlier, upon inspection of the port-fore oil impeller, decided it would last about a week longer. Any more than that would seriously damage the part, the tank at large, and leave us dead on the sand." she said, surprisingly casual about the conversation. Marcus, on the other hand, was rod-straight, his head and eyes forward. He had no desire to be chewed out by Shaw today.

Commander Wyatt turned his chair around to face the two engineers.

"This conversation sounds familiar; as I recall, we agreed that the impeller in question was faulty just this morning. Am I correct?" Penske nodded before replying.

"Yessir, but as we discussed this morning, we are not within range of Mother Base, as the part will give out before we return for repairs. I know we discussed solutions to this probability, such as waiting in a secure location for another tank to deliver the part to us, but Engineer Rhyne here says he has a new solution to this problem." Penske stepped back, putting Marcus firmly in the spotlight. He nervously swallowed. He wasn't necessarily afraid of the officers, but he wasn't sure how his idea would be received.

"The oil impeller from the Methuselah should work as a functional replacement for the damaged and faulty impeller we currently possess. If we go and retrieve the impeller, there's a chance that the replacement impeller can at least get us back to Mother Base for proper repairs. At most, depending on how the part is, it could keep us going for longer." Marcus swallowed again, looking at the officers to gauge a response. Wyatt blinked for a few moments before turning to Penske.

"I don't understand; You didn't tell him?" he asked her. Marcus turned to look at her. She grinned mischeviously and clapped Marcus on the back.

"I imagined he'd figure it out on his own, which he partially did. So that's a point to him. See what I mean? The kid's a good engineer. He'll do fine." Marcus was thoroughly confused now. He looked to Penske for clarification, but it was Wyatt that spoke up.

"Our apologies, Engineer Rhyne, it looks like Engineer Penske here has duped you. Ever since we heard of the Methuselah's death, we had planned on approaching the wreckage to glean more details about the battle, and the fact that we need a new impeller makes this all the more important. We're already on route to the Methuselah. At this speed, we should be there sometime tomorrow." Wyatt turned to Penske again.

"I don't imagine this impeller is small enough to be carried by a single person?"

Penske shook her head in the negative.

"Nope, it's massive. It'd take a team of six strong crewmembers to haul the thing, and that's a short distance over even terrain."

Wyatt nodded, thinking. He turned to Marcus again.

"That settles it, then. I imagine you're up to date on your Ringlefinch license?" Marcus nodded, incredulous.

"Excellent. I was going to send you anyway, as I'd rather have Penske here to keep an eye on our reactor just in case, and the fact that you can pilot a Ringlefinch makes it all the better. Congratulations, Engineer Rhyne, you've been volunteered to perform as part of the away team to explore the wreckage of the Methuselah, determine her exact cause of death, and extract the parts we need to continue our mission. We'll brief you further when we near the wreckage tomorrow." With that, Wyatt turned back around to the viewscreen. The conversation was over. The rest of the officers likewise turned back to their instruments. Penske guided him back down the staircase to the hallway. Marcus was stupefied.

Tomorrow, he'd be inside the Methuselah.