The brutal sandstorm winds buffeted against the cold metal shell that Gretel provided, but the occasional gust almost made Marcus lose balance more than a few times. The expedition crew walked ahead of him in single file, following the lead of Locke. The sandstorm provided next to no visibility, as was typical of Harmattan, and the people living on the planet had found ways around that issue. Each suit, including Gretel, had a series of instruments and sensors that could see into the swirling maelstrom of sand. These instruments provided each individual with a rough outline of the terrain around them in a certain radius in their helmets' HUDs. For Marcus, this meant each expedition member was covered in a green mesh that allowed him to see them, and the surrounding terrain had a sort of grayish outline. While he couldn't see more than a few feet in front of him, he could "see" land features such as rocks, boulders, etc. in a radius of a bout 20 meters around him. He also had a movement sensor, though it was less-than-reliable in a sandstorm like this.

The crewmembers trudged on into the storm, the wind striking them from the left, then the right, then back to the left again, relentlessly. They were silent, with the ocassional checkups by Locke to make sure everyone was getting by alright. Deknost walked in front of Marcus, and Brogers walked in front of him. McCullagh walked in the middle of the group, and Mason trudged behind Locke. They all carried equiment of some sort, though Gretel carried the most via bags strapped to her frame. The sled that was supposed to carry the impeller was also strapped to Gretel's back, as pulling it right now would be pointless, and could slow them down. Marcus kept an eye on his battery levels and oxygen, though he knew it would be more than enough for a simple trip to the Methuselah and back. There was a time indicator in Gretel's myriad of screens, and Marcus watched the minutes slowly tick away. While a relatively short distance away, the storm greatly slowed the crew from making any decent pace.

Slowly, the terrain began to change. What had been mostly open dunes with random boulders spattered around slowly turned into what looked like a series of canyons and cliffs. The canyons helped reduce the sandstorm's effect on visibility, and Marcus was able to see much better via Gretel's cameras. The canyon was wide, easily wide enough for a tank of even the Methuselah's purported size. However, a canyon like this could easily be a death sentence for a tank, Marcus knew, because it could be easily trapped and killed. Just the thought of driving into such a canyon made Marcus shiver. He wasn't claustrophobic, thankfully, as that would make piloting Gretel difficult, but the idea of being driven into such a dysmal death bothered him. Most tanks stuck to open dunes, generally, opting to use large boulders or mesas for cover in a duel. A tank in a canyon would be easy prey. As if she were reading his mind, Marine Brogers spoke up.

"Is the Methuselah down this canyon chain?" she asked, her voice crackling over the radio.

"Indeed it is," Locke replied, "though I have no idea what the fuck she was doing down here. You all know we don't come down in canyons like this for a reason." The crew trudged silently for a moment before Mason spoke up.

"Maybe she was running from something." The crewmembers said nothing. There's no way the Methuselah would be that desperate, Marcus thought, to run into a canyon like this. Marcus thought about asking McCullagh if she knew anything about why the ill-fated tank wound up in a place like this, but thought better of it. He was curious, deathly curious, but she most likely didn't know, as her story pins her outside of the tank when it died. And if she did know, she didn't tell Wyatt, Typhon, or the other officers. And if she had kept something from them, she likely had a damned good reason.

The crew continued for a time, until they neared a wide curve in the canyon system. Marcus noted several rocks that they passed looked like they may have been crushed by something, and several had been pushed deep into the sand. While treadmarks would most definitely had been swept away by the winds, crushed rocks were a sure sign a tank had been this way. Are we close? Marcus pondered. Locke signaled for them to approach the left canyon wall and stack up tighter. The team members did so, and Locke signaled for them to raise their weapons. While they had the radio, hand signals were completely silent, and it was quieter down here in the canyon. Marcus wondered if Gretel was loud enough to make Locke's efforts at silence pointless, but he said nothing, and did as he was commanded, lining up behind the others with his side to the canyon wall. Locke called for an advance with a motion, and the members crept along the canyon wall as quietly as one could in such equipment. Marcus did his best to still the sound of Gretel's footsteps. The crew slowly crept around the edge of the curve, and Marcus saw a form in the canyon begin to take shape.

The Methuselah took his breath away. She was massive, even bigger than the Enoch, who was an older, larger variety than modern tanks. Her monolithian boxy hull rose sharply out of the sand that had begun to partially bury her. Her turret was turned slightly to one side, as if she were acquiring a target. However, movement in front of the dead tank wrested Marcus' attention away from the subject of his interests. He could clearly see shapes scuttling low on the ground in front of the Methuselah. His heart stopped for a moment before he realized these were -

"Natters," Locke said, "Marcus, open up." Marcus instantly knew what this meant. Every team member stepped to the side, and Marcus leveled Gretel's .50 at the natters, and he began to fire. Instantly, Marcus' world upended. The .50 was huge, and the recoil was significant. The chest-aching thrum from each round reverberated in his bones, and the muzzleflash strobed in his eyes. Locke said something Marcus didn't hear, and the rest of the crew began firing, slowly advancing as they sent single shots downrange. The natters instantly responded by rushing the crewmembers, their long low shelled bodies undulating like the dunes they lived on. While Marcus was a decent shot with the .50, natters are notoriously hard to kill, and they were on the crewmembers almost as soon as Marcus opened fire.

Marcus landed a few shots on a natter that sprinted, or rather slithered, up to him. Its carapace exploded into blood and shell fragments, and the thing was still. His radio was filled with shouts as the crewmember tried to fend off the vicious wildlife. One lept at Deknost, who stood next to Marcus, and the young engineer batted it away with a simple flick of his wrist. It writhed on the ground, stunned, and Deknost put several rounds into its soft underbelly, splashing the sands around it red with blood. It shrieked, and fell still. Nearby, Marcus saw Brogers on her back, a natter on top of her as it tried to slash her throat with its razor-sharp claws. Her rifle had been knocked away, and while she held it at arms length, she pulled a sidearm from her thigh and fired multiple times into the vicious thing's underside. It flopped onto its side and twitched, and standing up, she shot it several more times before returning the weapon to its holster, and picking her rifle back up. Marcus shot two more that sprinted towards Locke, and stomped a third that almost reached his own ankles. The thing crunched under Gretel's thick steel boot, and it writhed. Marcus stepped back and shot it once in its armored carapace with the .50, and it blew almost in half. Looking up, Marcus saw the remainder of the pack slithered away into the canyon. The gunfire around him slowed, and then ceased, and then the canyon was silent.

"Good work, everybody," Locke said, almost sounding chearful. "Is everyone alright?"

"One of them got me good," Mason said through the radio. Marcus looked to see Mason sitting on the ground, blood splashed around him. Marcus hoped it was natter blood, though Mason was obviously wounded. He had a decent-sized gash running down his leg, which looked to be serious. Because of this gash, his suit was compromised, and he was now victim to the planet's extreme temperatures, and blown sand could be very bad for an exposed wound. Locke ordered Deknost to help Mason to his feet, and McCullagh spoke up.

"We didn't bury them deep enough," she said, her voice dry and hoarse. Marcus looked to see that indeed, the natters had dug up several bodies and were feasting on the carrion corpses that had once been crewmembers of the Methuselah. The young engineer heard Mason make a noise that almost sounded like a gasp or a whimper. Locke nodded at the bodies.

"We simply need to burn the bodies. That's the only way to keep the natters at bay," he said quietly through the radio. "Ginovsky, Rhyne, get Mason inside the tank. McCullagh, help them find a way inside. Brogers and I will tend to the bodies. The crewmembers acknowledged the order, and went to their tasks. Marcus went to help Deknost with Mason, but the big man shook his head.

"Find us a way inside, Rhyne. I can handle bruiser here," he said in his thick accent. Marcus nodded, though he realized Deknost couldn't see that. He signaled his affirmative over the radio, and turned to see McCullagh walk towards the tank. She ignored the bodies that she walked past, seemingly fixated on a part of the hull that was covered in sand. Marcus followed her. She stopped at the wall of sand, and motioned towards it without looking at Marcus.

"The airlock is here," she said quietly. She then stepped back, apparently wanting Marcus to clear the way. He stepped up and, using Gretel's heavy metal hands, scooped huge amounts of stand away from the airlock. The armored door slowly revealed itself, as well as the panel that covered the keypad that should open the door. When the door was uncovered enough, McCullagh stepped up, opening the panel, and typing something into the keypad beneath. With a heavy grinding noise, the door opened ever so slowly. A stepladder of sorts was integrated into the hull, and grasping the rails on either side of the door, McCullagh stepped into the tank. She turned around look at Marcus.

"Is this door big enough to get the impeller through?" she asked him. Marcus thought for awhile.

"No, not quite," he said over the radio, "we'll have to use the hold to get it out of the tank, I think." McCullagh was silent a moment before turning back to him.

"And if the hold door doesn't open?" she asked him. Marcus smiled and raised the arm with the ripper saw.

"We'll find a way," he said with a smirk. McCullagh stared at him a moment, before disappearing into the tank.

"Wait here," she said over the radio as she disappeared inside. The interior of the tank was inky-black, but he saw her turn on a flashlight before she disappeared around a corner. Marcus stepped aside as Deknost walked up, helping the hobbling Mason into the airlock. They, too, disappeared into the tank, and so Marcus waited. He turned around and saw Locke and Brogers were at work exhuming the corpses and preparing them to be burned. They were piling them up as respectfully as they could nearby. Locke motioned to Marcus, who walked up to him.

"Can I have some of that generator fuel, Marcus?" the expedition leader asked. Marcus replied in the affirmative, and knelt so that Locke could reach into a strapped bag to pull out a jerrycan full of fuel. Fuel of that variety was precious on Harmattan, as it came directly from Earth, but it was one of the best things to use when it came to burning things. Officially, they brought the fuel so that they could activate one of the Methuselah's generators if her reactor was completely out of order, so that they could access her computers and restore lights. But Marcus wondered if Locke had planned on doing this, as they brought more fuel than a generator would have needed. With the fuel can in hand, Locke began dousing the corpses, and eventually lit them with an electric lighter. The long-dead corpses burst into flame instantly, and were consumed.

Marcus had seen corpses before; he was a soldier. But he was a mechanic, an engineer. He always saw bodies on stretchers that had been pulled from the outside world. In those cases, the bodies were usually covered. And they were usually "fresh," if that was the best word for it. These bodies had been decomposing for days, and were now bloated and rotting, even in the dessicating sands of Harmattan. As the pyre burned, Locke and Brogers continued to chuck bodies on the flames. No words were said. They simply didn't have the time; the Methuselah's killer was still out there, and they had been ordered to conduct their investigation and return with the part ASAP, as not to endanger the Enoch any more than necessary. While the Enoch could take care of herself, and was more than capable of downing an enemy tank, with the oil impeller degrading quickly, Wyatt didn't want to begin an engagement with an enemy tank.

Marcus turned away from the morose sight and trudged back to the rear of the tank, where the hold was. This part of the tank wasn't as covered in sand, and the hold ramp would likely have no issues descending, if the tank had enough power to actuate the hydraulics. After a short time waiting, Deknost hailed Marcus over the radio. Marcus keyed in.

"There is not enough power, big guy," Deknost said. "We will have to open the big door with manual power, yes? Stand back so we can do the door work." Marcus signaled his affirmative, and with a clunk, the hold door opened slightly. And then slowly, it began to open and descend. After what seemed like an eternity, the door finally opened fully, resting on the sands. Marcus walked into the hold, Gretel's shoulder-mounted lights illuminating the dark space. This hold was smaller than Marcus was use to, and the place seemed to be in disarray. Parts and components were strown all over the floor, likely from the impact of the enemy's fire. Deknost hopped descended the ladder leading up to the upper catwalk, where he had been manually cranking the door open. He hopped down the last few rungs with a grunt, panting from the hard work, and turned to Marcus.

"Welcome to the Methuselah, big guy," he said cheerfully. Marcus put his helmet on and keyed the switch to open Gretel's hatch. With a hiss, it opened, and Marcus stepped out into the hold. Deknost clapped him on the back, almost throwing Marcus to the floor.

"Let us find this part, yes?" Marcus caught himself and nodded.

"Before we look though, I want to see what condition the Methuselah's norn suits are in. If they have Ringlefinches, I can use the spare parts to fix Hansel," Marcus said. Hansel was Gretel's counterpart at the Enoch, another Ringlefinch suit. However, one of the knee actuaters had failed when Penske used it last, loading up the Enoch with supplies, almost crushing Bootsman Yukon in the process. The two are of approximate equal rank, but that didn't stop Yukon from giving Penske an earful, though to her credit, she gave him an earful back about staying a good distance away from working machinery. Since then, Penske had tinkered with the knee actuator in an effort to fix it, but in vain. Since they had already turned in their requisition tickets for extra oil, they were stuck with only using Gretel until their patrol tour was up, which was in another four months.

However, what was inside the Methuselah's exosuit lockers was not a Ringlefinch. The two suits in the lockers were Hrungnir models, a much larger, much more expensive, much more armed varient of the more popular fancy forklift. Marcus' breath caught in his throat. These were top-of-the-line, brand new, viciously modern. They were extremely expensive, bristling with armaments and armor, and were used almost exlusively by spec ops groups for clandestine operations that were bound to go loud. What the actual fuck are these doing on the Methuselah, Marcus wondered aghast. Deknost walked up beside him.

"These look fancy," he said to Marcus. "Can we take on with us?" Marcus slowly nodded.

"If we can, I wouldn't mind it. We'd have to figure out how to get it back, though. We can't fit it and the impeller on the same sled." He crossed his arms in thought.

"Maybe we could find another sled?" Deknost pondered, scratching his helmet. Marcus was just about to radio Locke about his find in the hold, when a hand grabbed his shoulder. McCullugh spun him around.

"What are you doing, Rhyne? You need to be finding the impeller, not gawking. Get a fucking move on." She said this harshly, and walked out of the hold into the rest of the tank, mumbling vague curses under her breath. Marcus looked at Deknost, who shrugged. The two turned away from the fancy suits and followed McCullagh into the hallways of the dead tank.