#🗻 ━ 𝗂'𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖼𝗈𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗍𝗁! / roark ic.

[rockheadcd]

@electrivolt said:

He should've known this mission sounded too easy to be good, didn't it? Rush in, blow up some mining equipment, get out, no care for whether or not any additional damage was done to the competition— he should've known damn well that it was too good to be true.

It's too late to think about it now. After watching the equipment explode it only takes seconds, the moment Volkner lets out that sigh of relief, for the coral to burst out of the ground, and everything just spirals from there.

"Shit—!" the entire AC shakes and rattles around him as the first rush of coral hits it, alarms blaring and systems malfunctioning, and Volkner— Volkner can't get it under control, or even just think, sharp spikes of searing pain shooting up his spine through his link to the machine, spots of black across his vision and the coral feels angry and it's burning—

( it hurts it hurts it hurts— )

He thinks he hears a scream, and he's not sure it's his own. Volkner doesn't know if or how he's moving, barely able to register the increasing heat and all the alarms and screens flashing errors at him, barely able to even just hope his AC will stay in one piece for long enough to get the hell out of there and maybe just a bit closer to safety for a little while. Somehow, through the constant jolts of pain, his body on fire and feeling the sparks against his neck, Volkner manages to pilot his way out of the columns of flames and coral— at least he's somewhat sure he did, if the lack of searing white against optics doesn't mean that system shut down entirely. The interior of the core doesn't entirely feel like it's on fire anymore, so that must be a good thing, right? Even when there's residual coral still so stubbornly clinging to his machine and the bits of metal against his spine, and he feels ready to pass out while his head feels split in half and his body struggles to move... he has to have done something right if he's still alive, right? ... Right?

He tries to take a deep breath, wincing when the air feels like fire against his throat, and tries as best as he can to start just processing what's around him again. What's that green blinking light... oh. Autopilot. That might explain his survival, even when it feels like the last thing he might've wanted in a moment like this. Suddenly, the AC rattles and shakes before going completely still, and when the screen in front of him works again through the static, all Volkner sees is blurry white and grey, squinting, a long moment of silence before it hits him. Snow, the cloudy sky. The AC couldn't keep itself flying anymore, huh...

( that's not good... )

Instead of the quick way out, he gets to slowly starve to death here, then. That's not what he would've picked.

Volkner groans to himself, absently wiping at his nose when he feels something wet dripping from it. He looks at his hand, dazed and confused when he finds something sticky, warm and dark, staring at it.

( ... right, that's blood. that's his blood. )

Before he can keep mulling over the wonder that is having put together the fact that there's blood outside of his body and that's generally considered a bad thing, a new shock of electricity rips another pained scream out of him, AC's systems blaring at him once again before quietening down to their usual hum. As unwelcome as it is, the newfound pain brings him new awareness, enough to come back to his senses, even if just a little. Right, as unwilling as he is, he's still alive and unfortunately kicking, stranded and in dire need of getting the hell out.

... But how? Even when the systems are somehow operating and responding, that doesn't solve the issue of enough structural damage it's a miracle the AC hasn't collapsed on his head, and getting out by himself in this state and in the middle of the snowy fields is hardly an option...

( this is really it then, isn't it? not that anyone would care, but... )

( but that's not true, is it? )

... they've only chatted and met up at the hangars, no matter how much time they've really spent together, he doesn't even know if he can really trust him, let alone if he would want to come at all— no one would really have a reason to want to, much less for Volkner of all the people, but...

( it's worth a shot before figuring out which one will be the real cause of death, right...? )

Volkner is already convinced this will go nowhere, he doesn't even know if a distress signal will make it anywhere to begin with, let alone make it out of the totaled AC at all, there's really no point in even trying, no one even likes the stupid suicidal pilot that causes more damage than what he's even worth paying, hell, there might be some people celebrating finding his frozen over AC out here whenever someone from this corp makes it out here—

"Hey—" his trembling hands move to keys before he can really think much. Volkner's not even sure he's really feeling them at the moment, his brain just as scrambled as his machine, hissing through the pain and trying to focus on just stringing the words together. "I— I could— really use s-some help right now—" the words are barely scraped out of his throat, and Volkner's just trying to fight the black spots dancing across his vision long enough to hit the send prompt. If he's lucky, he managed to attach his current coordinates and send it to the right person, and if by any reason fate really has decided he'll make it through this, Roark will decide to come find him and get there in time.

And if he dies here, alone, bleeding and frozen to death, at least he gave life a shot, right? / when the kool-aid touches back. ( LONG LONG post warning. i went ham. )

Roark has an inkling of doubts that settle in his stomach the wrong way—something seems awfully quiet. Well, not that it's uncommon to see empty hangars. This temporary excursion to a different planet to take on some contracts pertaining to Coral was lucrative for them, so naturally, it wasn't much of a surprise to see him around. As long as the PCA didn't catch them on the way out, Roark could go back to sleeping in an actual bed than a cot. Still… it's freezing here in this wasteland. He's seen Volkner bundle up and still rub his arms to try to get some more heat. Hopefully, he's not too cold.

He frowns some—Volkner did say it was going to be quick, or something of the sort. He's managed to at least get Volkner's frequency saved for comms, if worse comes to worst. Whether or not Volkner was actually going to take him up on it, well. He couldn't force him. When they were on sorties together, it was easier to convince him to stay on the line.

The sigh comes out with a puff of air in the chill of Rubicon 3. Might as well distract himself with some routine maintenance, right? Roark jogs up to the upper layer to access the core of his unit, rasping the entry hole for permission and squeezing in. "Wonder if we'll see Volk today? Lemme know what's going on out there while I mess with the radars," he hums, actually speaking to the AC as if it could respond back. With a press of a button and a few switches, the power generator whirs to life beneath the cockpit, various panels and lights flickering on as each surveillance piece runs their respective start-up checks before going online completely. Soon, a visual of the hangar takes up the majority of his vision, lighting the cockpit with an eerie pale blue overlay. "Perfect. I was wondering if the temps here would mess anything up."

Roark settles into his seat, fingers running across the inlaid keyboard to manually edit the radars that are perched inside the head of his AC. Long range communications frequency… tune it a few megahertz up, switch on low noise amplifier.. Roark idly hums to himself until a flat buzz comes through on the speakers, his emergency channel list blinking while the active transmission comes through. That's weird.. it's a MAYDAY message.. not uncommon, but that's not out on the public waves.

"Switch active to emergency channel two."

When he realizes it's Volkner's voice, dazed and exhausted, Roark finds himself in a panic. This is bad, bad. Where the fuck is that signal origin—ah, there it is. The connection is awful there, as if the interference is intentional. Something must have happened. Roark mashes his finger on the PTT switch. "—I'll be there as fast as I can—hang tight!" When he releases, he quickly switches to one of the operator channels. "AC STONE EDGE requesting launch ASAP. Responding to a MAYDAY signal—" Ugh, he doesn't have the time to get his actual flight suit on, either, he'll just have to deal with this. Whatever. It's pretty warm in here.

"Launch service ready in five minutes. These aren't necessary, Roark, you can't go saving people on Rubicon all the time." The operator in the command tower has become unfortunately familiar with Roark's antics. There was a reason why he was being contracted to escorts.

"This one's important."

"If you insist.. Elevator D12 is ready. Armaments attaching."

Roark gets himself comfy in the tight space, strapping in and continuing the rest of the start-up sequence. Surely, if he was augmented, this could be done with just a thought or two, couldn't it? Ah, oh well. He liked the tactile aspect more. Besides, some of these parts utilized Coral anyway—the AC could sustain some sort of natural feeling if he focused hard enough. The whirring of machinery outside of the AC alerts him that his shoulder weapons are attached, and using the dual joysticks on each side, takes a hold of both arm weapons and locks them in place. The AC's core shuts and seals, and the HUD overlay begins to populate and fill in blank spots between the communication statuses with health information and ammunition loads. "All systems okay. System switch to combat mode."

"Elevator D12 ready to launch. Ready to fly?"

"Let's go."

Roark switches back to the channel the distress call was on, leaving the PTT hot—"I'm on the way, Volk—don't die on me!"

AC STONE EDGE pops up from underground, and once the locks on it's feet are released, Roark immediately ignites the boosters and heads far enough away from the hangar before working on determining what direction to go. "Post waypoint for friendly callsign Thunderfang." The HUD populates the radar's minimap with a blue dot, in addition to the range-bearing tile. "Thanks, you're doing great." He presses a button on the side, and the AC rumbles as the boosters gather additional energy. Powered by Coral, the overboost on his AC is effective with the weight that it carries often. It knows well that this sortie was much more valuable than others. Seconds later, STONE EDGE blasts off into the white expanse of the icefield, deep reds and bright yellow lights obscuring as he sets out into the fog.

Roark has long gotten used to the pressure and the forces. The headaches that ensue are just a part of the job for him, and the years of working up to being somewhat of a name back home has helped the adjustment. Still, he's not under this kind of pressure as he is now. Wishing fervently the speedometer could go higher doesn't change the fact that it's capped at a steady 360—Volkner's posted coordinates are still incredibly far away, and every stop to cool off the generated heat makes Roark more and more antsy. On the plus side, if Volkner didn't warn him of hostiles, then the vicinity should be clear, right? Unfortunately, his tendencies to bring all manner of weaponry is part of the reason why he's slower than he could be—pulse shield be damned, he never knew when he needed a Songbird.

Anyway, where are his supplies.. ah, here. Good, they're still tucked away in one of the few compartments that wasn't crammed with wiring. It was a necessity for an unaugmented pilot like him. He can't help but sigh, eventually toggling the PTT back to push only. Out here in the Central Icefields, there was little to wonder about except along the outer perimeter. Maybe billions of years ago, there used to be enough heat to sustain a biome here, but it was difficult to picture this planet with color on the surface. Thankfully, the underground hangars were littered about the planet, some closer to the hypothetical Coral convergence that existed on the planet. After all, there was no other reason independents flocked along with the corporations for some fast cash. The search for remnants may not even be for remnants at all, really, given the amount of loose Coral that he could see in the stratosphere ever since they both snuck in behind PCA security. These outposts… they couldn't remain dead forever—there was no way. If there's anything he's seen in the way the Coral in his AC parts behave, it was erratic and infinite. He opted to call what was out here free range, so to speak, given what he's learned over the time of working on his AC and speaking with parts manufacturers that were lucky enough to have transported any off Rubicon 3 before the embargo. If the Dosers could continue to dose, there were ways to obtain Coral. If there was Coral, there must have been a way to obtain it en masse.

These outposts… now that Roark is closer, the map of the local area, his radars pull up some historical data from excursions nearby. Supposedly, this area and others like it were abandoned after the Fires had vanquished much of humanity back then… but was it really empty? If Volkner was sent here, clearly something was up. Eyes flick to the estimated distance as it rolls down. Another fifteen minutes. Surely, he can hold out.

The plume of smoke that lingers around a certain spot in the sea of white tells him something more than simply an ambush occurred. The abandoned tunnel looks to have been scorched from within, but not by any manufactured weaponry and blunt explosive force. The way the metal pipes running out of the hole that was buried in ice are scarred, glowing a gentle level of bright red immediately tells him that Coral was, in fact, involved. A surge, by the looks of it—this stuff didn't exist much on the surface unless it was scraped up by the Liberation Front long ago, surely. AC WILDVOLT kneels in the thin layer of snow, all but some of it's cobalt blue paint scorched off after neglect and Volkner's inability to pay for any cosmetic repairs. It's the least of the AC's problems, as Roark approaches and makes a cursory investigation over the damages of the rest of the AC. "You awake, Volk?" he asks over the local, short range communication, voice echoing off of the entrance into the chasm and nothing else. No response. He must be passed out by now, and Roark refused to believe he was a casualty. WILDVOLT is in less than stellar condition, heat sinks barely hanging out from the back to dissipate the overloading that must have occurred and effectively evaporated any coolant that had remained in any of the normal AC parts. Half an arm was missing, but the condition of the shoulder made the entire piece effectively dead weight—some panels that melted off exposed enough wiring that they're simply an amalgamation of conductive metals, the labor would be far too much to try to untangle that, assuming trace amounts of Coral weren't remaining in the globs. The fact Volkner's AC is still somewhat complete otherwise is a miracle, but Roark is still identifying the parts that need to be removed before they can go anywhere.

For a moment, he considers reaching out to begin the process, but stops—he's augmented, right. Older gen. His body must be connected to his AC, still, given there is still enough power to broadcast, if only barely. He needs to unhook him first. Right…

Roark leans his AC forward, kneeling, and setting down one of his guns to use the arm like a bridge and locking the joints in place. Rubicon is a cold place, so there isn't much time to fiddle around before his fingers start to hurt. He preemptively zips up his jacket for an extra layer, lamenting his decision to not jump into his pilot suit before rushing out—well, here goes nothing. Roark pulls back on a lever overhead, the sealed cabin hissing as it opens up and he feels the bite of the windchill against his nose and cheeks. Before he forgets, he reaches over to the supply bag and pulls out a roll of gauze and medical tape. After unstrapping himself, he crawls out, precariously stepping onto the forearm and dashing his way to the other core once he has his footing. It's no hangar, and there's no rails to keep his balance if he moves too fast, but there are the remnants of bright red decals on the side of WILDVOLT's core indicating the manual release. The surface of the metal is icy, slippery from sitting here for some hours, and trying to pull the panel off takes extra time Roark does not feel he has. After his fingers start to hurt, it finally gives, hinging open, and Roark punches down on the switch, the core creaking open under the unsteady distribution of weight. Ah, right, the HUD is only half-visible now with the seal broken. But there is Volkner, slumped over and injured—Roark catches the sight of blood that has slowly crawled down from his forehead to his chin, some blond stained and tinting messy roots a shade of sanguine. There are wires connected directly to his body, with the thickest ones emerging from the seat to the back of his neck, holding up most of his weight.

There's a small gap of space around the pilot seat and the rest of the chamber proper, so Roark opts to precariously pull himself over, swinging a leg over the edge for leverage and managing his way into the cramped space, even if it can only handle just his feet and legs. The command and control panels are different than his own, likely from some of the controls being innate to the brain, but the jist of what he needs is there—namely the augmentation neural link and system power. Roark looks back at Volkner before eventually cutting the neural link first, and watching the wires detach and recede, if weakly. Volkner slumps forward under his own weight, and Roark catches him and eases him to one side to make sure he's okay, checking over what visible skin he can for other signs of injury. When he checks the augments that stick out from his back, he follows a trail of glowing red under the skin, something like a lightning pattern—he realizes soon after it's scar tissue, although he's unsure if it was from this incident or one prior, given how much Volkner covers up from the cold. The glow fades in and out in time with his shallow breathing, and Roark's lips flatten together in realization. He took the full brunt of a Coral surge, and the traces are coursing through his veins—he must have had a hell of a time when he lost parts of his arm, huh? If that's all he can see right now, then it's probably worse under all of that clothing. "Fuck, I gotta get this AC moving.." Roark grimaces as he carefully sets Volkner back into his seat properly, tightening up on the seat restrains for the inevitably bumpy ride back to the hangar. With most of his body held in place, he tears a strip of gauze and folds it up, locating the origin of his head wound and pressing it into his hair to keep the fresh from bleeding out everywhere. With two fingers he holds the edge of the medical tape and twirls a few rotations around his head and sets it in place, holding the gauze and hopefully keeping some blood on the inside of his body.

It takes a moment for Roark to find which button on the joysticks that allow him to drop off the remaining weapons—after all, ammunition were the easiest to obtain, and the laser blade was light enough that it could stay. Once pressed, the shoulder attachments drop to the ground with a muffled thump, vapor and dust rising up before being blown away by the infrequent gust that brushes by. That takes care of most of the problems, but now there's the arm and the heat dissipation.. but that was part of the core. He gives himself a moment to quietly think—the coils should be attached to a harness so that it can move fluidly when it needs to release extra heat… if he can take that out, that would remove some considerable weight and give some space to tie the AC to his… okay. There is a gameplan after all. Thank goodness. He doesn't have a lot of time before Volkner freezes out here, too.

Finally, he cuts the AC's power entirely, and any hums and crackles from the console and the radars completely dies out. Any discharge should dissipate by the time Roark gets around to lopping off limbs. Carefully, he makes his way back around outside of the seating area of the core, returning to the manual switch and sealing the core shut again. Internal power was enabled for more vital functions, such as powering the pneumatic pistons—pilot safety was solid on these modular systems, much to his relief. Once he's certain Volkner is sealed safely, Roark bounds back up the arm of his AC and hops back in the core, seat unbearably cold as he seals up and regains control of STONE EDGE. The bazooka often carried is stowed to a shoulder augmentation that allows storage for firearms, and Roark gets to work on shedding the extra weight. The process is gruesome to look at, but realistically, no one would bat an eye at the disposed and damaged parts littering this desolate land. MTs, ACs, and other PCA models could be found in heaps practically everywhere, especially as the Coral War brought in an influx of bodies from the neighboring planets, much like him and Volkner. There wasn't an ecosystem to preserve here, so Roark was free to do what he wanted, which included prying his AC's fingers into the shoulder socket of WILDVOLT, looking for the mechanical release that allowed for the easy swapping of parts as ACs were known for. Eventually, he finds several latches that needed to be undone before metal creaks at the changing weight being thrust upon only a couple remaining attachments. He doesn't have the dexterity to disconnect many of the smaller wires that are likely for augmented pilots to feel the AC as an extension of themselves, and they tear and snap when the weight falls on their fragile lengths, with no primary cable tubes for generator power and coolant to support as the bones of the part. The half-frayed arm falls to the ground like the shoulder weaponry before it, and Roark doesn't see any sparks coming from the shoulder socket—looks like some coolant and oil at the most, and the Coral that may have lingered either slipped out well before Roark got there or coagulated in a different part of the AC that was still contained.

He moves around to the back, stepping around the littered pieces and leans in to evaluate how to best remove the now nonfunctional heat sinks. The radiator fins are warped and bent, some sagging from thermal damage and others disfigured from enough sorties and inevitably forgotten. It takes some scrutiny before Roark traces back to the primary hinges the rails sit on, reaching in and yanking on the joints, jostling the other AC as he pulls and pulls until the weak points finally give and bend, eventually allowing Roark to rip the cluster of heat sinks off of WILDVOLT, leaving an empty cavity of bent rods that allowed an air gap between the generated heat and the walls of the core. The cover hangs limply open, and Roark does his best to cover the cavity to minimize the drag it could capture. The legs seem relatively fine, if not for some minor damage on the joints—not terribly difficult to swap out, but they were more likely to be salvageable than the head on the AC. There was no way half of those radars didn't get fried on the way out, but… no, he shouldn't. If Volkner managed to wake up, he would need to talk to him somehow, right? A sigh.

"I need to get him back.. where is that cable spool—"

He walks around to the other side, eyeing a spool of cable that he was looking for. Despite RaD turning junk into something usable, there were auxiliary items that weren't ever removed from their designs. Thankfully, this was one of them. Carefully, he grabs the loose end and brings it around the lower half of STONE EDGE's core, like a belt, to fix into place, adjusting where to stand and going behind the AC. It takes up most of the length available with little to spare, but just enough to affix a slip knot to the open railing on the opposite side of the core. Arms affix themselves to the undersides of the core, helping distribute the additional weight across Roark's AC. A little boost is slower than anticipated, but works well enough. He could make far better use of sliding across the ice on the way back instead of outright flying. Yeah… that should make the trek a little easier.

"Hold on, Volk, we'll getcha home.."

The ride is somewhat clunky as Roark tries to make sure the limp legs don't catch on any obstacles, the average temperature on the generator is higher than normal as it strains under the additional weight. The breaks between are more frequent, with each one making Roark more and more nervous about the state of his fellow pilot, but slowly, agonizingly, he eventually makes it back to the hangar with half of an AC in tow.

"AC STONE EDGE requesting medical personnel," Roark sighs into the operator frequency channel, stepping onto one of the vertical pads that lead down underground. "AC WILDVOLT in need of plenty of repairs—callsign Thunderfang unconscious but alive. I need someone ASAP—"

"10-4, loud and clear. Surprised you came back so fast." Ah, it's the operator from earlier. Maybe the shifts haven't rotated yet. It's only been a few hours.

"I'm a little frazzled. I need to check on Volkner—"

"Hold on tight, the mechanics will be out shortly. Don't freak out."

"Not helping—"

Various servo arms descend to help manage the weight and balance of the ACs, and Roark spots a couple of operators in a control box manning the panels and bringing the arms to hoist up WILDVOLT. Roark carefully lets go of the other AC with one hand, finagling with the cable tie and finally undoing it with enough struggling. The second level rafters rotate to extend towards the loading bay as WILDVOLT is carefully moved into a slot proper next to STONE EDGE. Once there's enough clearance, Roark nearly leaps out of his AC before the safety bridges are even locked in position, unable to contain his worry and panting his way across the rafters over to Volkner's AC, fumbling with the manual release, and then nearly plummeting down the two stories trying to jump back into the cockpit.

Volkner is still there, albeit with his head slumped uncomfortably. Roark props him up by the chin, feeling for a pulse with his other hand, and can barely feel it under his own. There's little else he can do besides unhook his seat belts and wait for a proper stretcher to come by, helping to lift him out and carefully on. While WILDVOLT can get maintenance determined, Roark doesn't have much else he can do besides follow the medical personnel as far as they allow him, barred from sterile rooms and shooed away soon after. Roark, the lost dog he is, stares as double doors latch shut, as Volkner is simply gone within minutes of getting back to the hangar.

( well. i'll have to bide my time one way or another with the ACs, i guess… )

There's no reason to rest, either, as nervous as he is. Not knowing the extent of the damages Volkner experienced doesn't particularly help—and maybe the operators are right, he shouldn't care this much, but.. he seemed like a decent person that other mercs didn't really interact with. Something about not wanting others around, that he could be mean, and just generally unappealing to be around. But really? After enough sorties and bothering him and even finding him snoozing in his AC, Volkner really wasn't bad. He was quiet and despondent at times, uncaring even, but Roark didn't pick up any real malice from him. As Roark heads back up to the ACs, he finds himself back at WILDVOLT, taking a look at the empty seat. There's not much by way of blood stains, but he finds a few dried droplets around the joysticks and wayward ridges. The least he can do is clean it up, he figures, frowning as he rummages the storage spaces as politely as he can for some kind of cleaning wipes or anything of the sort. Instead, he finds snack bars and chips pushed into weird places, some shelf stable juice and energy drinks that look older than they should have been, before finally finding something useful to try to clean up with. Really, it's busy work before he finds himself spiraling in whatever time he has to mind by himself between the two ACs. In his insanity, the traces of blood and any other spec of grime around the cockpit are cleaned up at the mercy of several dirty wet wipes. "Man.."

Roark sits on the edge of the AC core, gazing at the missing arm. If it weren't for his rush, it could probably have stayed, even if it was partial… Maybe he ought to cover the costs for all the repairs, especially with the heat sinks that he ripped out. His gaze naturally drifts towards STONE EDGE, his comrade in arms. "What should I do…?" Roark asks softly, not expecting an answer in return and eventually looking back at the AC he was currently sitting on. He could identify the parts used in WILDVOLT relatively easily. Having finagled with enough in the hangar, as some mercenaries often did as well, and occasionally taking on mechanical repairs himself, the identification was second nature. Well. He can probably find the parts guys around and see what they have available. While they had a set schedule, pilots didn't. The Rubiconians here weren't too keen one letting people run loose, but, with ALLMIND running the distribution of parts, those orders could go in. Yeah…. maybe that's the best he can do for now, isn't it? He's not sure when Volkner will wake up, either, but as long as he hangs around, maybe one of the medical staff could inform him…? Okay, first, he needs to find a parts catalog and one of those tablets for ordering… oh, and Volkner's registration number.

☆

The hours that passed felt like agony—the parts and repair were slated to be underway within the next couple of days, mostly due to the transport time between landmarks on Rubicon 3. Roark foot the bill without hesitation, knowing full well that their contracts would replenish what extra he needed to spend to cover rebuilding half an AC. Besides, most of his own personal costs was heavy artillery ammunition. He had some extra to spare. The lead time, however, was not doing much for his worries, and it took some nagging about Volkner before the medical staff posted at the hangar finally caved once Volkner was stable, albeit unconscious. The metal folding chair is much less comfortable, Roark feeling the cold through his pants. He sighs, sitting on it backwards, perching his chin over folded arms and leaning into the back of the chair, staring at Volkner. He's breathing at least, but there's far more bandages on him than he remembered there being. The Coral surge affected his implants after his AC took the brunt of the impact—after asking about what happened ( knowing full well volkner would ask ), the doctor on site looked at him with some confusion.

"You didn't know he's a gen four this whole time?"

"…No? I didn't want to ask. I know about the implants, though."

"Modern generations look nearly indistinguishable from unaugmented pilots these days. I'm surprised," the doctor regards Roark with a level of disbelief, arms folding. He's middle-aged, stress lines on the crease of his brows—really, just a normal guy in a white lab coat. Whether or not he gets paid like the doctors back home.. Roark isn't sure, but he is sure about the doctor's knowledge on treating humans and their augments. "Generation four is the last of the Coral generation. It's a miracle he survived a surge without any irreversible complications to his brain. There is likely to be some minor complications when he wakes up, but they should be temporary. Unfortunately, what those complications are depends on the person. Augmentation surgery affects the recipient differently depending on their experiences and biological development. We siphoned as much excess energy we could from his augmentations to allow the Coral in his body to reach homeostasis again. The human side of his body needs to rest from the trauma. I'll check back at the end of the day before handing his charts over to the night shift."

"I see.. I'll let you know if anything seems different with him. Thanks a lot," Roark responds, mulling over the summary he was given as the doctor makes some notes for the hour and eventually leaves to take care of other cases. Roark slumps, exhausted sigh draining out of him slowly and deflating his shoulders further. He's so tired, but he can't nap now.. what if Volkner wakes up soon? He can't be of any use asleep, right? Ugh, he can barely keep his eyes open now that he doesn't need to actively pay attention. A groan eventually slips out, Roark burying his face into his arms and only his safety glasses remain visible at the top of his head. This! Sucks!

[rockheadcd]

( he's kind of serious, but not in a... passionate about piloting kind of way, isn't he? ) Roark takes a breath, settling himself. The mission is complete, now. Just about everything's blown up, MTs smoldering—a glance in the general direction of the open roads into the compound show an array of black smog from each one, speckled sites among the dusty, flatten earth. "Oh—let's bounce." WILDVOLT doesn't leave him much time to say much else, already turning heel to head over to their rendezvous point.

Roark hits a switch, toggling over to another frequency, encrypted communications with Balam's mercenary liaison. "WILDVOLT and STONE EDGE are heading back for pick-up. Mission was a success. About, uh... seventeen casualties from surrounding guard posted. ETA is about ten minutes." An affirmative and a confirmation on payment, and Roark hops back to the frequency shared with Volkner. The coral generator hums beneath the AC pilot seat, and soon, STONE EDGE is off to catch up with WILDVOLT—such a light frame is truly flying through without issue compared to his own heavy frame, but at least the sheer output of coral helps him stay afloat.

Visual markers aside, Roark can see the gleaming blue from WILDVOLT's thrusters before inevitably they reach the rendezvous point, cliffs whose edges are littered in trees, mostly concealing the ACs from the naked eye. Of course, the time doesn't pass without Roark being annoying.

"That wasn't too bad at all!" He's slowly coming to realize there's no point in waiting for Volkner to reply, mostly because he never will. "I'm not sure why other pilots say you're hard to work with, though. Independent, sure, but I don't really get the point. You're not malicious," Roark hums, kicking back in his cockpit while STONE EDGE idles, awaiting their cargo taxi back to the initial starting point. Admittedly, this was the kind of mission that didn't need much coordination, aside from the tetrapod. Even so... Volkner wasn't a problem to get used to. What was spoken of him, however, seemed more like a exaggeration of the truth more than anything. Well, it's not like he should believe everything he hears, anyway, but this was the perfect opportunity to verify the rumors, or, well, disprove them.

STONE EDGE's head turns towards WILDVOLT, but Roark's hands aren't on the sticks. "Hey, wanna get a bite to eat or something when we get back? I can pay."

It doesn't take much longer for the exchange of bullets to be over— Volkner's own weapons built up enough strain on the heavier machine for Roark to do his part, and just as Volkner expected, he doesn't take as long or hesitate as much as other pilots would've.

There is movement at the edges of his screen, and without radars blaring red, Volkner reasonably expects it to be the other AC doing its thing and keeps his focus on maneuvering around the tetrapod, not stopping, not hesitating. It's only when the first grenade impacts the MT that Volkner allows himself to step back, a quick boost away right before the expected follow up that would finish the fight for good— and there it is, Volkner quietly watching as the lance shreds the tetrapod's defenses and the Songbird finishes the job. No signal from the MT.

Volkner doesn't say anything, simply maneuvers his AC towards a higher, vantage point and looking around, then scanning the surrounding area for good measure.

"No more hostiles detected. Mission is over." It's all he says out loud over their comms before he pulls up the information provided before the sortie, marks coordinates and proceeds to turn around to head towards the pickup point. "Heading to rendezvous point now." And with that, his AC's boosters light up, and Volkner is on his way. If Roark follows or has anything else he wants to check first, it's his problem, he's done his part of the sortie, he wants to get back before Arquebus takes notice of the lack of deliveries and the subsequent havoc wrought upon their base.

Well, Roark should've really expected this out of him even before they got onto that cargo chopper, the writing was on the walls and spelled out for him!

[rockheadcd]

"Question. Why does Rotom have teeth."

[rockheadcd]

@midokai said: ❝     roark, you should go nonbinary.     for a week or two.     ❞ / vaguely foreboding muttering to kick off pride month ^_^

"I should go wh—" He doesn't even catch N's words the first few times he tries to replay it with his internal monologue. The other man just. Drops that. No context. No nothing.

That's surely what they call an intrusive thought, no?

Regardless of the inspiration, it's such a baffling comment that it's completely halted Roark's train of thought. He's forgotten what he was doing just a moment ago. Not that he was questioning, he's comfortable with who he is and his expression, but... where the heck did N dissociate to for that? He might be built different, but damn—

"...I didn't think people could hand out free trials like that...? Hey, where are you going—"

[rockheadcd]

( he's putting think town on his bucket list )

[rockheadcd]

Perhaps his optimism is a little too bright for even the interesting creatures that N and Cannoli are—his expectations are certainly set far too high, and he learns that very quickly as the mallet misses it's target and stamps his fingers into the slate. "—Ack! Ouch..." Perhaps N is more hopeless than he could have dared to think of, shaking out the throbbing pain in his fingers with a frown. And yet, he's not expressing negativity towards N, hardly deserved. It's not like he's doing it out of malice, he's clearly just unpracticed.

( roark does not quite understand how much that observation will apply to just about anything he could set in front of n )

And they're tired... bored.... dang, this is the kind of stuff that keeps him occupied for hours on end. Well, he didn't particularly have much time to plan anything, thanks to his lovely partner in crime, now did he?

"Hey, well, if that's the case, we can always head back up. I don't mind if you want to crash in Oreburgh for a bit," he offers, bouncing back from the wake up call forced upon his hand and carry picking at the seam of the stone himself as he continues. A few swings later, and the stone finally splits along the ridged cell, revealing the forms of the famously recognizable helix shape. "Ah, it's an Omanyte—in tact, too. Sweet!" He hums, pleased, and carefully wraps up the fossil for the inevitable trip back to the surface. "Where's the other 'mon? There's some naturally occurring caverns here that host all kinds of wild creatures—she couldn't have wandered that far off, right?"

Hell, maybe those caverns could be somewhat more amusing than digging, right? And maybe a little less painful. Well, hopefully there won't be much bruising later on in the day. "Mmm... maybe it's a stargleam cavern nearby.. I don't really hear the ghost types around," he observes softly, although easy to hear over the quiet snoozing and occasional echo of rock smashing. Eventually, his attention goes back to the resident wanderer. "Does a field trip sound more up your alley, N?"

     how he wishes he’d never said anything to volkner at all——     if he’d known that this was roark’s idea of entertainment he would have promptly decided to stay home,     to indulge in a nap or something similar,     anything that didn’t require watching someone perform manual labor for     …     fun?!     hell,     he would have tagged along to sunyshore city,     under the promise that he would,     for once,     keep his hands to himself     &͟.     attempt to stay out of trouble because at least that way he could keep himself enthralled via a conversation:     he’s always had much to share with volkner,     the ramblings on     &͟.     on     &͟.     on from a man who seldom had anyone else to have actual discussions with.      (     because volkner genuinely seems sincere in his interest when it comes to his blabbing     &͟.     it’s a notion that is not entirely lost on n.     )     ❝     it’s boring,     ❞     again,     for emphasis,     as if roark hadn’t heard it the first time he’d blurted out the statement.     he has half a mind to lay down on the ground with cannoli because at least she has the right idea in attempting to sleep the remainder of the day away     &͟.     he’s yet to have his afternoon nap anyway.     (     like clockwork,     always on a tightly kept schedule.     )

     ❝     can i go home?     ❞     there’s nothing stopping him exactly,     except for the fact that he doesn’t necessarily know his way out of the underground     &͟.     his pokémon friends aren’t much help in that regard,     it’s also their first time in the tunnels,     much like him.     he wonders now,     where mascarpone might be,     as he’s yet to see her fuzzy purple head pop out from the shadows ahead     /     not that he’s too concerned,     she knows better than to stray too far——     it’s likely that she is simply engulfed by the darkness only a few feet away,     whilst busied with a loose rock,     as lately she has become rather fixated on batting things back     &͟.     forth.     (     still,      he can’t help but wonder why she hasn’t returned.     )

     for a second he begins to become lost in his thoughts,     ‘til the handing over of rubber mallet forces him back into the real world with a jolt——     the words hardly register ‘fore he strikes with as much strength as he can possibly muster     &͟.     …     he misses,     much too preoccupied by the happenings in his mind     /     he hasn’t a clue that he’s made direct contact with the other’s fingers with that swing,     hardly reacts nor offers an apology to alleviate any misgivings,     he simply     …     yawns.     ❝     i'm tired.     ❞

[rockheadcd]

"Oh hey, I've been hoping I would run into you at some point here. This is perfect timing." Dawn stands before Roark, rummaging in her bag for a moment. "I found this when I was digging a week ago or so. I've been holding onto it since then in case I ran into you." Dawn takes out a medium-sized velvet bag, loosening the drawstrings on it as she tips it over, a stone tumbling into Roark's hands.

It was a Moon Stone, though it was clear it was an atypical stone - the normally rough and jagged edges were smoothed down and flush with the surface. The rhomboidal shape was still clear, though the normally pointed edges were more rounded off than they were sharp. The sheen on the stone was iridescent, several colors glinting off the glossy surface when the light caught it just right. The color of the stone itself was lighter, the color appearing a bit more milky with twinges of blues and deep greens. It was clear Dawn had taken great care in both cleaning and polishing the stone as to not compromise the natural luster and surface of the stone itself - something the very Leader before her taught her, Dawn clearly putting his guidance into action.

"I didn't really know what it was at first. I thought it might be a weird Oval Stone." Dawn returns the velvet bag back to its spot, awaiting the next interesting stone to be placed within. "That was until I put it in the moonlight. I'm not gonna spoil how this particular stone looks in it. Just- trust me when I say you're going to want to try it for yourself. I've never seen anything like it before. I honestly don't even know how the stone itself got so smooth either. I know erosion and stuff happens, but I can't believe no one else dug it up for so long." She takes a second to pause, realizing she's absolutely yapping Roark's ears off at this point.

"Anyways. Wanna go digging and see if we can find some more unusual stones? I've been on a hot streak lately."

Ah, two late night degenerates would inevitably come across one another in the underground—what is there not to love about escaping society and all of the responsibilities of existing, with the added bonus of finding cool artifacts after enough searching? Volkner should, hopefully, be comforted by the fact Dawn frequents this place as much as Roark does. Nothing terrible would happen without one or the other coming in to help. Roark looks up from his makeshift table—an overturned bucket with a chunk of hard-packed dirt in an oddly rounded shape. The vague luster of a crystal shimmers under the overhead lighting. Ramses sits patiently, but when Dawn appears, he perks up just as quickly, happy to see one of his favorite people.

"Oh, artifacts for little ol' me?" Well, say less.

This is usually how it goes, most of the time, so long as Roark wasn't grumbling over yet another missing flag.

He turns the moon stone over in his hands, entranced for a moment by the way each face reflects, almost like a labradorite at certain angles. Overall, reducing the raw edges down to just barely a curve changed the way light interacted with the very structure of the stone itself, almost like Dawn managed to implant a foggy night within the stone. It takes only a little time before Roark breaks out into a smile. "You've improved immensely on your preparation skills. Not a single level missed before the polish! You know, I've never actually thought to tumble evo' stones, I just assumed it wasn't possible without compromising it somehow... but to think that this is actually just how it naturally formed...."

Ramses peers over, chirping in agreement—he knows what they're supposed to look like, given the household he grew up in. But this could pass for something entirely different. "That would have been my guess had it been completely opaque." Still... under what conditions did the stone form like this, he wonders.. "The first thing I'm doing on the way home is taking it out away from the city lights, that's for sure."

In it's natural, unfinished state, maybe the moon stone had dodged the amateur gaze... ah. The offer of more digging cuts off his train of thought, but he doesn't mind, happily moving to take his current chunk of interest and using the bucket for it's intended use.

"Hell yeah—I wanna know where you found this one, too. I haven't come across any more cursed heirlooms in awhile. I need to see something interesting besides spheres—" Yeah. Yeah, of course neither Roark nor Ramses are going to pass up the opportunity, are they. Looks like they're not going home anytime soon.

[rockheadcd]

@littlerooted said: "Your facilities really are incredible, Roark. I can tell you spared absolutely no expense. I wish we had the space to do this back in Rustboro." He shoots the man a smile. "And while I admit my focus is more in those species from the Cenozoic, being able to see some of these species alive has been absolutely wonderful." "Admittedly, this also makes me lament how much of the accessible information comes from Dex holders like myself, given we were children when we recorded most of this. Who on earth thought Rampardos hunted anything? They're herbivores." "At the very least the information I had to hand to raise my Cradily was accurate, even when I was younger." / mento illness comes in many flavors. | accepting.

"Honestly, I'm just improving on what my dad's started when he moved to Oreburgh years ago with Tata," he explains casually, but he's certainly proud that fellow academics have taken notice. Sure, the goal for the people here was to learn, but Roark's priority was the care for the 'mons before anything else. It was Byron's prerogative before that, and ultimately, the prerogative of his own father's father before him. It just wasn't until later on when the coal exports returned funds that they were able to expand on the research side of things. Surely, Brendan was aware of the in's and out's of the paperwork and even some of the bureaucracy—it wouldn't be the first time he's spoken nerdy with him. "Rustboro is in a weird spot, so I can't imagine there's a lot to work with. Has there been any discussion around an independent facility?" Roark asks, curious about situation there—Orebrugh and Canalave were in rather unique positions, but Hoenn operated under a completely different geography.

Still, he can't help but laugh a little. "If professors and museums were asking for a kid's input, they coulda asked me when I was still in grade school. Even opportunistic predators are an exception and not the norm, but it doesn't feel like 'til recent years that the research community has actually been able to compare notes. It's why Dad and I take a lot of pride in the fossil programs we maintain here. It wouldn't be the first time a 'mon's skeleton was misinterpreted entirely. Sheesh, most fossils we have any information on are straight up pacifists, too." Another reason why Roark spent so much time putting together a proper ambassador program, consequently fostering fossils. After all, not all of their findings warranted a revival process, and even in the grand scheme of things, space would always be a factor.

"If it wasn't for the perseverance, I'm not sure if the program would be this thorough. I oughta take you to Iron Island one of these days so you can check out the herds there—beyond the public areas, Dad's helped care for a multi-generation herd of Bastis and Shieldon. They're happy as Clamperls, especially since the remote habitat has remained relatively unchanged save for some global phenomena. The information he's been able to document is kinda the reason I ended up as obsessed as he is, ehe."

"It's a good thing Lileep and Cradily are pretty chill—at least in my experience. My mom's Lileep is doing well, even in the climate here. They're so much more resilient than we could have imagined despite finding many of their fossils in old seabeds. On the plus side, they still exist in remote reefs, apparently. I'm really glad it wasn't a scenario with an Aerodactyl or another apex predator, though." Spoken from experience apparently. "My hope is to hopefully correct a lot of the inaccuracies from 'dex research as we verify the behavioral patterns of the fossils here on the mainland. I've learned so much more than I could have ever imagined over the years."

[rockheadcd]

@brumahielo said: "Are you planning to leave my home at any point today?" It's the gym and its working hours are currently open. He has no say in the matter. He still would like Roark to leave him alone for no reason. ( he needs to sulk. it's not a good day! ) / HA. grusha thinks he LEAVES. unprompted. | accepting.

Roark blinks—err... it's barely the afternoon, and Grusha is asking him to... leave? But nothing is happening? Except maybe the snowstorm that's whipped up outside. In fact, he looks over his shoulder beyond the one-way glass of the gym's sliding doors, and he can't even see the field that isn't not too far. Turning back to Grusha, he gives him a quizzical look. "If I did, they got cancelled," he frowns, "Besides, you're on the clock, too, aren't you?"

Sinnoh bent the rules—something he's become aware of and has certainly taken advantage of ( but to be fair, it's not like the league was willing to pay fair wages. blame his three, sometimes four jobs on that! ), and Paldea's was much more.. organized. Official? Perhaps set up correctly. Something like that.

It feels somewhat sudden, even if Roark was intending on taking on a challenge eventually—he'd just like to do it when he wouldn't come back with several bouts of frostbite and very unhappy 'mons. "Is something wrong? Your buddies don't look too happy, but they're all physically okay...?" Looking over Grusha, he's learned enough tells from Volkner that an obscured face doesn't hide much to the perceptive. "Let me rephrase, are you doing okay?"

[rockheadcd]

And to think he was going to get away from spooks being dropped upon him before the week would get here—no, Roark was never safe from guardians and gods alike, especially ones with a sense of humor. A routine errand with the museum was supposed to come to a close, with another batch of fossils granted for training and acclimation to this new, industrialized land. A Kabuto sits on his shoulder, and a more active Cranidos toddles along to keep up with his stride. It's nothing out of the ordinary!

Well. Maybe not today, huh! He couldn't have been mentally prepared for this on any given day, even the recognition escapes him—"A really fancy cosplay of my dad in his prime before I was born was not on my bingo card this year—" / @melemeleguardian with the halloween slay.

[rockheadcd]

"Heyyyy!!" Oh, that's Aak— oh no he's very much running up to Roark— oh he's excited— "I heard around here that you have a great resistance to alcohol." It's worded as a statement, not a question. The emphasis he's putting on some words may or may not be concerning, depending on how Roark wants to interpret it. "You're the exact dude I need right now! I just need you to drink some stuff I've been brewing and see how it's like, just need to know if the ultrasonic infusion method is any help! C'mon, it's gonna be quick—" he's not even hesitating or waiting for an answer before just. Grabbing Roark's sleeve and tugging, big grin and big eyes not at all helping with the request he's just brought up. Surely he'll be fine, Aak wouldn't just do something that would get someone killed, right...?

Oh no. He knows that voice perhaps a little too well, the owner of it some five-foot-something punishment from Gavial personally. He usually would see Aak after the most reckless of injury, and perhaps, it was easier to settle his nerves when he was simply living through the stupor in order to handle whatever he did to trigger his oripathy.

The hairs on his neck can't stand up quickly enough before Aak is in his field of vision, grinning and staring up with the single visible eye, gleaming with intent. "I—Where'd you hear that from—" he sputters, the large tail of his swishing in sheer fear of what he needs him for.

Hell no, he's home brewing?! "Are you even old enough to be distilling alcohol—what about your uncle—" Lee, he refers to, quite literally the only other operator in their circle that could possibly hold his alcohol. "Hey, hey, I didn't consent—" The specialist has quite the hold on his sleeve despite being so small. This is terrible, actually. But. He's not about to throw his own father under the bus just to evade this feline for one day.

"At least just—call Volkner over, 'cause I know how this goes—!" He's going to be curled up in bed by the end of this.

[rockheadcd]

"Hey for no particular reason do you think we could go to Kalos? You know, just for fun?"

"Just for fun, eh? I didn't think you were the type to be interested, Volk," he admits, a thoughtful hum following. What's even going on there these days, anyway? "You don't bring up trips without a reason, did something catch your eye?"

C'maaaan, spill the beans, Volkner. Alola is one thing, but hitting up Kalos is another. He's leaning over and awaiting his ulterior motives. "This isn't for a Tyrunt, is it?" Well, it could be.

[rockheadcd]

"Maybe it's one of those 'renovate my entire island' weekends. Gayle and Del both deserve a beach bungalow!"

[rockheadcd]

@electrivolt said: "Okay, okay— just trust me on this—" easier said than done when he refuses to elaborate on what he's trying to do here, not even showing the contraption supposed to help with people's backs before placing it right behind his seat on the floor. He's seen enough online, he just really wants to try— and then Volkner puts his hands on Roark's hands and pushes. Just a little help cracking his stiff, sore miner back, right? / smth smth sunday i guess smth smth.

"I worry every time you say that," Roark states with a squint, frowning some as Volkner disappears. Instructions not to look means it's a surprise, but followed up with a trust me? Oh, boy. But, he obeys nonetheless, knowing full well Volkner wouldn't actually do anything bad to him. He'd never. But he's still concerned after being made sure he's sitting with nothing behind him. Even the 'mons are vaguely interested in what's going on. Usually Volkner isn't the one walking in with the surprises between the two.

There's some shuffling behind him, and then Volkner is back in his field of view. Hands clasp, and he lets himself be pushed backwards against a hard arch—

—whatever came out of his mouth was not something even heard in the bedroom, surely. Not to mention the rolling cracks that had even the aces just staring openly in concern that Roark just left the mortal coil.

He's liquid safe for Volkner's struggling to hold up whatever weight isn't a puddle on the back stretcher. He has no words.

[rockheadcd]

"Hey, Roark, Steven is scared of having a body like yours."

"How come? Dude does so much so much walking around that I think he's secretly hiding thunder thighs." No but really. He literally leaves for a week—at least Roark comes home within 24 hours. Where is he going! "Maybe he's scared because I can carry him like a bag of potatoes."

[rockheadcd]

The archosaurian grimaces when Aak gives him the summary—and it would explain why it was such a pain to keep up with walking behind a grumpy, panicked feline. "That... checks out. I took some beatings, so I guess all those fledgling crystals sunk pretty far," he sighs, and the exhale pinches the problem spots that Aak soon further agitates fresh wounds. His tail deflates at the mention of Volkner—of course, he wouldn't stay still while Roark was off in the exam rooms. It wasn't much of a surprise knowing any passerby could tell why. "Shit hurts more than my tail, that's for sure. I swear I don't need to go back, though!"

Unfortunately, it meant he would probably need to go under in a few months to perform a little maintenance. The suppressants worked well enough, but the wear and tear of being an operator inevitably would win out in the end, especially when a certain someone took his role too seriously and pushed his physical limits far more than he should have. Admittedly, he was not the best example for showing restraint. He's pulled from his thoughts shortly afterwards when he realizes Aak is back in his personal space, a toothy grin betraying ill intent—Roark gulps, knowing full well that even if he denied it, there was someone who would find a way to slip it into his next meal. "I think I'll be fine healing on my own—" Mandatory work in his lab for the next couple of weeks, is what that means.

With all of the supplies ready to extract, Roark inevitably has to submit to the whims of his assigned doctor, sans the experimental concoctions that would, much to his chagrin, actually help and ease even the anxiety of the feline pacing outside. Now, if he managed to make something taste like tamarind, then maybe he'd be more willing... "Alright, tell me where you need me, I'll reposition." Ah, the sweet sound of defeat.

"Yes, yes, everyone does, that's nothing new." Aak is trying at least, to be a little nicer around the ship, just like Hung asked and Waai Fu more or less demanded. He's trying, that counts for something, right? But anyways, patient, examination and treatment. That's what he's here for, as much as he'd be very happy to keep being a little shit.

"I'm on it, I'm checking—" while his bedside manners could still use some more work, Aak is doing his part on the medical side, going quiet when he's looking closer, for once focused on his task, hands tracing the exposed muscles. The various scrapes and bruises are there, yes, most of them already having stopped bleeding on the way back to the landship, the treatment required for the actual flesh wounds will be minimal— the real issue at hand that required his attention, however?

"We're about to find out— they called me in because a few crystals of the not so nice variety are digging riiiiight into your skin when they're supposed to be nice and quiet sitting right on top of it, according to your oripathy case." And meanwhile, Aak is reaching for the preliminary vitals and data so handily captured by the oripathy monitor, humming to himself as he starts going through them. "You got your kitty cat freaking out, by the way— you should see how he's pacing outside." Someone's in trouble after they're done here, and for once it's not going to be him.

"I can see how you got everyone so freaked out, though— those things were really trying to stab you back there. Sheesh, I'd almost think you're enjoying this or something! Am I going to have to be the one referring you back to the psych department?" But finally, Aak puts the tablet down, turning to look back at Roark again. "You're lucky your fancy spikes are already in your body like that, though— all the blood's still inside your body and all the bad stuff stayed outside your body! For sure gonna hurt like hell, though. We'll just take care of all those other gnarly scratches of yours and you'll be as good as new. Oripathy readings look fine after all the agitating your oripathy settled down, by the way— least for now, we'll see if anything changes." And with that report, Aak is ready to get to work, supplies retrieved and soon laid out to clean up everything he can find. Just to be sure a certain stupid gator won't make anything worse. But before he does that, he leans over to be able to look at Roark in the face, grin juuuust a bit wider. Not a very good sign.

"Oh, by the way— I don't think I need to tell you to take it easy for a bit and rest up to let all the inner damage heal, right? Or will I have an excuse to cook up somethin' new to knock you right out? I do have a few ideas in mind that would be fun to try out, you know—"