That night, Marcus Rhyne, Asisstant Engineer of the EMC Enoch, slept poorly. He drifted in and out of wakefulness, his consciousness sliding parallel with impossible dreams and nightmares. He dreamt of hulking metal skeletons, with flesh dripping from every hanging bone. He dreamt of lakes of fire where the damned crawled out to grab at his ankles as he ran past. He dreamt of places he had never visited or even seen, like Earth, where his parents had been born, or Mars, where his remaining living family lived. He dreamt of colonies on Titan and Europa. He dreamt of piloting the Ringlefinch into an inky black storm that threatened to slice him to ribbons, leaving the 'Finch to walk into eternity with a corpse inside. More than a few times that night, Marcus woke up in a sweat. He always drank a little water and tried to go back to sleep. And eventually, the deepest form of sleep took him, where there no dreams, and he drifted off into nothingness until his timepiece woke him.

The next morning, he tried to forget his troubled night, shake off his exhaustion, and get on with his day. When he awoke, Penske was already gone; she slept like she ate. Minimally. Marcus was positive it was the heartbeat of the Enoch that sustained her, rather than food or drink or sleep. Marcus Rhyne, on the other hand, most certainly required mortal sustenance. He passed by the galley, taking some coffee and a fruit snack from Finnegan, who bid him good luck on his expedition. Some other crewmembers in the galley he didn't know well, who were sitting to eat breakfast, also bid him good luck. Apparently word had spread about the trip to investigate the Methuselah, not that this surprised the young engineer. There are no secrets aboard the Enoch,he thought to himself as he left the galley with coffee and fruit snack in hand. He decided to head to the starboard-side airlock ahead of schedule to consume his breakfast. As he walked into the antechamber ahead of the airlock, he saw others he assumed would also be part of the expedition. Deknost, the big man, sat smoking his pipe on the bench in the antechamber, staring off into space as if meditating. Cheri Brogers, the marine, sat near him. She was small of stature, but according to both Locke and Ghi, she was the best hand-to-hand soldier aboard the Enoch, besting even Typhon herself on a couple of occasions. She was young, in her mid 20's, and she kept her blond hair in a bun consistantly, as per protocol. She was attractive, but kept to herself, and the crew, out of either respect or fear, kept their distance. Marcus also saw Silas Mason, whose brother had apparently died aboard the Methuselah, sitting on the opposite side of the bench, his head low. He was an assistant gunner, under Atolo Killigrew's tutelage, but Marcus imagined he convinced someone to let him aboard the expedition to find out what happened to his brother, Anvil Mason. He was around Marcus' age, in his later 20's, and his shock of static blond hair was his most defining feature.

A hand clapped Marcus on the shoulder, and he looked to see his friend Locke standing beside him with a grin, his famous tooth gap showing plainly. Marcus smiled back to him and shook his hand.

"I never got to welcome you back, Locke. So, welcome back, glad you made it out ok." Marcus said with a smile. Locke nodded.

"Thank you, thank you. I'm glad I made it out ok too," he chortled. Locke gestrued to the bench seat. The duo sat between Mason and Brogers, and began to chat quietly.

"I imagine you're coming with us today?" Marcus asked between bites of his fruit snack. Locke nodded.

"It's a given. On one hand, I came back early, so Typhon says I'm the easy choice to send back out. And on the other hand, I know exactly where the wreckage is, so I can guide the group best." Marcus nodded as he sipped from his coffee, which he lamented lacked any sweeteners. Locke spoke up again before Marcus could get the chance to.

"And what about you? No offense, but you're an engineer. Why send you on an exploration to a dead enemy craft? Are we salvaging something?" Marcus nodded in the affirmative.

"We need an oil impeller. It's imperative. If we don't, the Enoch will be dead on the sand within a week." He looked at Locke to see his friend sat aghast. Marcus looked around and saw the others sitting on the long bench were also looking alarmed at what he said. A still tank was a dead tank, and they all knew it. Oops, thought Marcus. Probably should have saved that for the briefing.

While the expedition members sat gobsmacked, Marine Captain Typhon entered the room. The bench-sitters stood upright in salute, and Typhon quickly ordered to rest as they were.

"Good morning, crew. As you know, you've all either been chosen or volunteered to act as extensions of the Enoch's interests in determining the cause of death of the Methuselah. However, there is a secondary objective which is technically more critical than understanding what happened to the Methuselah. For this purpose, we have Assistant Engineer Marcus Rhyne here to explain what's needed. Engineer?" She gestured towards Marcus. The engineer nodded, stood, and turned to face his compatriots.

"As I mentioned, we need an impeller. The one we currently have on the port-front side is old, worn out, and degrading as we speak." Locke, who had his arms crossed, raised one of them.

"What's an oil impeller, and why do we need it so badly?" he asked. Marcus nodded, thinking about how best to explain it in laymens terms.

"It increases oil pressure in a given oil line, which either helps increase or decrease friction on moving parts on that given oil line. Think of it as a fancy oil pump." Locke nodded, and this time Deknost raised his hand, pipe still firmly between his teeth. Apparently Typhon didn't care as much about the "no smoking rule" as Bootsman Yukon did.

"If this oil impeller thing breaks down, what will happen?" the burly man asked.

"If the oil impeller fails, oil pressure in that line will plummet. There are four oil impellers, each servicing a corner of the drive train. If this particular impeller fails, oil will stop flowing in any decent sense of the word, and the parts on that oil line, which need the oil to flow quickly, will begin heating up. When parts heat up above their normal operation temperature, they begin to fail. In a short time, the whole drive train could seize, or give out. In this situation, the drive train giving out would be the best result, as seizing would cause the entirety of the port-side tread to also seize."

"We'd be driving in circles." Marcus looked to see that Mason had spoken up, though the young man was looking into space, rather than Marcus. The young engineer nodded.

"Yes, we'd be driving in circles. Functionally dead on the sand." The crew sat in silence for a moment, before Marine Brogers spoke up.

"If this part is so cruicial, why didn't we get it replaced the last time we were at Mother Base? Did it really degrade unexpectedly, without anyone planning for its replacement?" She said it in an almost accusatory manner. This was the cost of the crew trusting the engineers so much. If something bad happened, it was almost as if the engineers had betrayed them. They took it personally, as perhaps they should. Marcus cleared his throat.

"The part in question has been rebuilt twice, but the last time it was rebuilt was more than a year ago, and it's run fine since then. It's been on our radar to replace it, but when we last were at Mother Base three months ago, Chief Engineer Penske elected to use our requisition tokens to acquire parts we knew we would need, such as extra oil, spare sprockets and tread components, etc. We honestly thought the impeller would last longer than this." Marcus shrugged.

"We gambled, and we lost. Now we have to either pay up, or find a new part."

Typhon nodded, and Marcus returned to his seat.

"So now you know," she said, "the replacement oil impeller will be the number one priority of this expedition. No matter what happens, one must be recovered. Engineer Rhyne, how many do you think are aboard the Methuselah?"

"At least four, though we have no idea what condition those are in. If we're lucky, they'll have a brand-new spare somewhere. That would be the absolute best situation, because if they don't have a spare sitting around, I'll have to remove the best-looking oil impeller that's already installed. Meaning it'll be used, meaning I'll have no real idea what condition its in." Typhon looked confused.

"You can't determine if it's of good quality by looking at it?" she asked him. Marcus shook his head in the negative.

"No ma'am. These oil impellers are complicated pieces of finely-tuned machinery, with narrow tolerances. These impellers have a shelled exterior to protect the fragile parts on the inside, and cracking open that shell would throw everything inside out of balance, potentially ruining the part if not done correctly. If I were to crack it open, I'd want to do it here, in a carefully maintained environment, and it would functionally be like a rebuild. We'd have to balance the impeller fans and -" Typhon cut him off with a raised hand.

"I understand, we can't open it. How long would it take to remove the part from the Methuselah, granted it passes your purely visual inspection?" Marcus thought for a bit.

"If it's anything like the one in the Enoch, I can rip it out in about six hours." The room sat in silence. Marcus realized they probably imagined a much smaller removal time.

"What of the size of the part? It's large, is it not?" Typhon asked him. Her brows were knitted as she asked the question.

"Yes ma'am, there's no way it could be carried by hand across large distances. Dragged, maybe, but that's dangerous considering the fragility of the part. If it gets dragged into a rock, it could be a goner." Typhon stood in silence for a moment, musing.

"This is another reason why Engineer Rhyne will be going. He can pilot a Ringlefinch, can you not?" Marcus nodded. His 'Finch license was a little old, but it wasn't a complicated machine, so he knew he could do it.

"Good," she said. "Engineer will pilot one of the Ringlefinches, and it'll drag a sled behind him. Strap the part to the sled, cover it in a tarp, bring it back to the Enoch. Does that satisfy you, Rhyne?" Marcus thought for a moment. Dragging the part across rough terrain was a bad idea, but he knew they only had sleds. The Ringlefinch could carry the replacement impeller, but it would be dangerous to carry the part long distances, as dropping it would be most certainly far worse than dragging it on a sled. So Marcus nodded.

"Yes, a sled would work. We'd want to travel slowly, though."

"It's decided then," Typhon said, "at 0800 hours tomorrow morning, we will be within safe distance of the Methuselah. Marines Brogers and Locke, Workman Deknost, Assistant Gunner Mason, and Assistant Engineer Rhyne will depart to retrieve a functional oil impeller from the wreckage of the Methuselah, and if possible, ascertain the cause of her death. Possible dangers will be all of the dangers the surface provides, as well as potential reactor leakage from the Methuselah, and the possibility of interactions with wildlife." The crew members nodded in the affirmative. Marine Brogers spoke up.

"Do we know anything about the Methuselah's reactor condition?" she asked. Typhon shook her head.

"No, we know nothing. At this distance, we can't ascertain exactly how bad the radiation is going to be, or how long you should be near the wreckage. However, I've been assured that before your time of departure, as we near the Methuselah, we'll know more. You'll be briefed appriately before you leave the Enoch. Any more questions?" Deknost raised his hand.

"That marine looked pretty messed up yesterday, Captain. What should we expect from local wildlife?" Typhon looked at Locke.

"Marine Locke knows more about that than I do. Marine Locke?" Locke stood up and turned to face his comrades.

"The only way I even found the Methuselah was because I heard gunfire. I headed in that direction and discovered Marine McCullagh, the marine I brought in yesterday, fighting off a pack of chittering natters." The crew on the bench were quiet. Chittering natters were pretty notorious as one of the deadlier critters on Harmattan. Their bulletproof carapaces had a reputation for being half of the reason they killed people. The other half, of course, were their deadly claws. Moving in packs, natters ambushed their prey either by bursting out of the sand to attack, or by rushing out of the poor visibility of the desert. Locke continued.

"I helped her kill the natters in question, though about half of the pack disappeared when they realized they weren't going to get an easy meal. However, she was wounded in the process, which led to us coming back to the Enoch in the condition you saw her in yesterday." Marcus raised his hand.

"If we see natters, what should we do?"

"If you see one natter," Locke said, "expect many more. They travel in packs of six to twelve, though I've heard of larger. Head to higher ground, such as a boulder, if possible. Their carapaces are almost completely bulletproof, unless you're using heavy weaponry. They're also resistant to flame-based weapons. The best option is to use your bayonet to flip them over, and shoot their soft underbelly." Marcus nodded. Typhon spoke up.

"Seeing as you're bringing the Ringlefinch, I see no issues allowing it to be armed. Rhyne, you have no issues arming the Ringlefinch, right?" Marcus nodded. It had been an even longer time since he'd piloted an armed 'Finch, but it wasn't that big a deal. He had trained extensively with Ringlefinch combat when he had been training to become an engineer.

"Yes ma'am, I'll work on the arming today."

"Good," Typhon said, "and make sure everything else about it is up to snuff. I know one of those bastard suits likes to break down, so take the one that doesn't, and check it over well, as I know you do." Marcus nodded at the command.

"Any more questions?" The crew shook their heads in the negative, or sat silently.

"Good," said Typhon, "then you're all dismissed. Be here at 0730 tomorrow morning. In the meantime, check your gear, rest up, and prepare. See you tomorrow." With that, Typhon left the room. The others likewise stood up and began filtering out. Deknost continued to sit on the bench, apparently deep in thought, pipe smoke puffing in rings. Locke caught Marcus as he was leaving the room.

"Would you need any help arming the 'Finch?" he asked him. Marcus shook his head.

"Naw, I've got it. The service crane in the hold works just fine, thanks." Locke smiled and nodded.

"Well, if you need anything before we leave tomorrow, just let me know." Marcus nodded, and the two parted in the hallway. Marcus went immediately to the hold, where the Ringlfinches were located, to perform the inspections and arming. Located aft, in the very rear of the tank, the hold was situated below the reactor and engineering bay, so it was very familiar to Marcus. It was large for a tank of this size, which was good considering they held a lot of goods there that a tank of this age simply couldn't live without, like the literal tons of oil that sat in barrels in the hold. Opening the blast door, Marcus was hit with a wave of hot air that smelled like oil and sand. As clean as it could get, the hold was still dirty. Marcus walked over to the cages anchored into the wall where the Ringlefinches were located. He enjoyed tinkering with the machines, so he knew today would be an entertaining one. Working on a 'Finch meant a day of not thinking about tomorrow, which he was nervous about. Marcus Rhyne was no coward, but also wasn't eager to dive headlong into an irradiated dustbowl of a planet with deadly bulletproof wildlife.

He opened up the cage to the leftmost 'Finch, who was affectionately labed Gretel by the crew. A Norn Industries Exosuit, a Ringlefinch was the working title for an industrial-quality exosuit that stood around seven-and-a-half feet tall. It was a common model, and the same sort of suit that Marcus had trained in. The 'Finch was Norn's most-sold model, and rightfully so; it was the perfect combination of size and strength, without being too bulky or hard to store. Combat versions of the Ringlefinch existed, but the Enoch didn't posess any. Rather, the Ringlefinch was built solely for industrial work: lifting pallets, hoisting heavy components, pulling heavy loads, etc. It was functionally a bipedal forklift, and it looked the part. The cockpit was pressurized, but in truth, the 'Finch wasn't designed for long expeditions out into the dunes and canyons. It was better served by only occasionally leaving the tank. It also wasn't armed by default, and wasn't designed to be armed. However, aftermarket modifications made by Penske allowed it to receive a number of armaments and modifications that had been bartered or traded for by other tank crews. In this case, a 20mm rifle would be attached to one forearm, and a ripper saw would be attached to the other arm. The rifle would be for wildlife, as the armor-penetrating rounds would certainly kill any natter, if not reduce it to a fleshy splatter on the desert floor, but the saw was for cutting metal rather than combat, if they needed to cut their way into the Methuselah.

Marcus got to work arming Gretel, and working on the full inspection to make sure the suit was functioning correctly. As per usual, he fell into a sort of meditative state when working on machinery. He was so focused on his task that he completely missed dinner, until Penske radioed him asking where her dinner was. That night, Marcus slept soundly, having working himself into an exhaustion working on Gretel. He had no dreams, and no nightmares. And his nerves had eased, being confident that Gretel would not only keep him safe, but allow him to help keep his comrades safe.