The Crawler [MAIN THREAD]

[relentless]

The metal man rolled his shoulders, flexed his free hand and flicked his boots in order to feel slightly more at ease. He knew that if he sat in that chair in that power armour of his, it would surely br an apart and leave both a hole in the floor and a hole in his pocket. So, he began the ejection process. This would take an out a minute of his time, the power armour immediately slumping in place, still gripping his mace tight. A soft mechanical drill of some sort seemed to sound off, along with the back of the power armour beginning to part down the middle, though it wouldn't open fully till whatever was drilling into him was complete.

"S-so, this suit is a... well, it's the first new series of power armour. A prototype, if you will. It's suited for me, only for me, and with it being a prototype... it has its quirks."
Tiberion hummed with an occasional 'ow' grumbling through the comms his voice being able to be heard from outside the back. Slowly, gently, the energy began to part from his armoured skeleton, the orange hue slowly parting away in a less frightening manner than before.

"Sorry! Can't disclose that!"
Tiberion said a little louder before his comms quickly cut out, the back part of the suit beginning to open slowly, with the mechanised drill sound had apparently dissipated.

"O-oh, and my names Tiberium."
A partially pained wince occurred from not out of the comms, but from behind where the armoured shell seemed to slowly unfold, revealing the interior of the exoskeleton. It was dark, and tight inside, though the internal structure, and secured, cut resistant wiring inside the power armour could be seen.

[azmoham]

It was with rapt attention that she watched the man unfold from his armor, her eyes tracing every contour of the metal and kevlar. Truly, whatever this armor was it was well made, and if the man's comment was anything to go, supremely survivable. It was nigh impossible for her to keep the look of admiration off her face and she took a half-step towards the thing, reaching out to brush her fingers along the surface.
"Where, where did you even get this?"
As far as she knew, armor systems were still a little crude in most places, being bulky and cumbersome, but this was sleeker than those, more maneuverable even for its large size. And the weaponry was unique as well, most suits utilized some form of anti-air rifle mounted on the shoulder, and smaller weaponry was held or built into the hands. She was already trying to decipher what the suit could be made out of to preserve the hardiness of the larger models but with a certain lightness that the others lacked, some sort of carbon nano-tubing composite maybe? Thoughtlessly, she held the Smirnoff out to the man, still fixated on the machine. Moving around to the side where the man called Tiberium was being ejected from, she peered in at the wiring and circuitry, studying every inch. It must've held miles of cable and servo-nerves, the electronic-musculature requiring some highly advanced circuits just to operate. Her own suit suddenly felt primitive and childish in comparison, like a cardboard sword being held up to Damascus steel.
"Wow."
She breathed.

[Unter]

Fyodor laughed again "Ha ha ha ! Tiberium, you should look out for your sweet armour. Looks like the lady here will just jump on it ! Look at her eyes !" He said in a mocking tone
"I must admit, it's quite cool. But how can you stay in this ? Even I stay out of my armour.
Still, no one wants vodka ? For sure ? It's home brewed !" He seems disappointed that no ones wants his drink.
He still kept a shiny eye at the armor suit.
"The queen's service must be agreable if one can have such armor suit. But I bet my last credit that this battery of yours." he points at the once glowy point in the armor "will be your downfall one day."

[Outisakanobody]

=[Tavern]=
/[Sean Banner]/

Sean shrugged, but in his mind he was still thinking over what that suit could be. He came up with a few theories and how best to beat it. As he did this he continues to eat his noodles.

[rumsztyk]

The pale boy exits the living quarters to enter the Red Rocket. He orders a bowl of the usual from Spitze, sitting by the counter and eyeing the people gathered around a giant metal suit. He glanced at Tiberium exiting the armor, from time to time.

[Vanitypirate]

Name: Margot Lenoir

SPOILER: Click to show

Name: Margot Lenoir

Age: 42

Gender: Female

Class: Surgeon

Skills:
Delicate, precise fingers; charismatic, good at finding friends, but struggles to keep them.
Talented at languages: her mother-tongue is French, but she is decently fluent in English and Spanish. She has a fair knowledge of chemistry– specifically, of the manufacture of the medicines and poultices used in her profession.
Despite her boasts of purported sophistication, she struggles with the intricacies of human relations: keeping friends, selflessness, bedside manner.
She is a poor leader.
Outside of the surgeon’s bay, she is not impressively coordinated physically, either; in battle, it would perhaps be better for everyone’s health if she lingered at the sidelines, ready to piece together her next patient.
She’ll never admit it, but she is a terrible cook.

Ethnicity: French; a proud native of Valence.

Accent: A moderately thick French accent.

Height: 5’1” (154.9 cm)

Weight: 118 lb (53.5 kg)

Cybernetics: Her entire left hand is “metallically enhanced,” as Lenoir would put it, to enhance surgical accuracy when working with delicate, convoluted pieces. A circular ring in her palm as well as the joints, pulse with a soft, green light to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. In her home town, rumor has it that the right-handed woman performed the operation to have it installed herself.

Items: An array of surgical tools, from the simple to the dangerously complicated, are meticulously organized inside the leather physician’s bag she happily totes around with her. She carries a silver, greasy, and admittedly old-fashioned pocketwatch, with the engraving of a fox’s profile etched on the outside cover.
She has a pair of goggles, thick with outwardly green lenses, to enhance her vision and accuracy in the close work of surgery. Her name is minutely written on the fastening, beside two knobs with which she adjusts the focus of her goggles.
For weaponry, in a discreet holster beneath her coat is a humble pistol, with another round or two of ammo in a pouch in her surgeon’s bag.

Appearance: She is short. A small amount of wrinkles– crow’s feet in the corners of the eye, laugh lines about the mouth, furrows on the forehead– serve as a testament to the beginning of middle age, set upon an olive-toned face. She has high cheekbones, a proud chin, a Roman nose, and thin lips. Her brows are stern, and finely groomed. Her dark hair is collected into a braid, wrapped closely to form a tight bun. Her eyes, almond-shaped and sharp, are of an equally dark hue of brown.
She dresses in tall, black boots, a dark pair of slacks; a grey coat she buttons up to her collar, and she rolls her sleeves up to expose her bare wrists, and her mechanical hand.

Biography: Despite their secrecy and tight-knit, familial bonds, the Lenoir clan was a household in the constant eye of the Valance public. With roots in the late 19th century, the Lenoirs are famed and perhaps, even resented, for their line of doctors. Margot Lenoir’s mother was a physician, as was her mother’s father and grandfather… and so on– and Margot herself was no exception. She took to doctoring like a fish to water, and under her mother’s wing, she was priveleged with a rich, medical education… much to the relief of her two older brothers, who, uninterested in the blood and gore the profession had to offer, went on to pursue a rather dull career in business and photography elsewhere in Europe. Sadly, each brother suffered an unfortunate and untimely end: the businessman’s life ended when, in a drunken stupor, he’d mistakenly directed his automated vehicle to drive itself off a cliff; the photographer was crushed to death beneath a shallow-rooted tree he had been trying to photograph.

With Margot as the sole heir, her parents made several attempts to find a suitable mate for the young lady. An Margot agreed, with a small compromise: she would marry Simon Maul, a wealthy engineer, if he would take her last name. Unbeknownst to her parents, and Simon to an extent, she had gotten herself sterilized the fortnight before the wedding. Her parents died without a grandchild to carry on their lineage, and after a year she divorced her husband to dedicate herself fully to her profession, taking pride in the knowledge that she is the “Last Doctor of the Lenoirs.”
She was alone now, in the Lenoir manor, and the public took notice of this and her frequent, shady night-time outings. This, along with the new, robotic hand she suddenly sported, earned her the title La Sorcière de Valence, “The Witch of Valence.” It took the investigations of a uniquely brave town constable for the town to discover that she had been performing illegal, under-the-table cybernetic operations for a lower price than what more official sources demanded; obviously, at the cost of cut corners and lower quality.

There was a large public outcry against the Witch’s secret operations, and her medical license was promptly revoked. Facing multiple, expensive lawsuits, Lenoir fled to the Crawler to continue her medical career– medical license be damned.

---

=[The Red Rocket]=
/[Dr. Margot Lenoir]/

This was the beginning of the end.

Such terrors did not dwell below the feet of the sane world without a cause. This well of evil in its purest form could not exist on the sane plane as the people and things she had come to know. There was the heavens above: the sweeping green of the fields of home to the fading city lights, the feeling of the wind out in the open. Indeed, if that were heaven, this was surely the Pit.

It was almost a religious experience for the ex-doctor Lenoir, sat at her table.

She was a small woman, barely an inch or so over five foot. Her dark hair, a velvet-red hue underneath the dim red hues of the lights in the Red Rocket, was pulled back into a loose bun atop her head, while her grey coat was buttoned up tight to the throat, as if the surface's winter chill could snake in through the depths of the earth.
The thought of the miles of earth and stone between herself and the corporeal world was more than enough to make her shiver, as though pressed by a chilling wind.

Needless to say, she was rather put off from the bowl of ramen before her.

Lenoir sat in a stony silence, straight-backed, in her chair opposite a fellow that was more polar bear than man, what with his white hair and hulking form.
And she stared into her plain noodles, hardly registering the other patrons that came and went, as if it could make her forget the sights she had seen, down there in the Dark. The hand of flesh shook, but the only betrayal of her mechanical left was the rapid, steady pulse of those green-glowing veins that ran through the palm, to the equally fluttery beat of her heart.

Perhaps this was why she had not been tailed by one lawyer since she had arrived: this place was already a death sentence in its own right.

[Kidney]

 

SPOILER: Click to show

Name: Model Code: MA-7. Nicknames: Chigger, Mite, Elder.

*Age: Manufacturing was a long process, filled with gaps of consciousness and unconsciousness. Estimated Age: 84

*Gender: None, No reproductive parts exist, modeled to look male.

*Class: Doctor: Surgeon. Over 20 years of experience data and schooling have been downloaded in this unit, making it a competent surgeon.

Skills: Listed below, bulleted for the aesthetic pleasure of the human eye.

Knowledgeable on much medical procedures and research in the medical field.

Internal skeleton constructed of steel alloy, resistant to wear and tear.

Joint systems and muscle replications are air assisted, allowing for the expulsion of air for minute boosts in physical capability.


Tools for surgery lie in a steel box in the chest cavity, and new right hand allows for the sedative to be administered through fingertip-mounted syringes.

Space for holding pharmaceutical supplies, but are currently empty.

Left arm is original, containing nodes used for quick tases to sedate patients or defend self against would-be attackers. The system used to generate electricity for it is integrated into left elbow, a system of bands spinning.

Ethnicity: None, modeled to be mannequin-like, does not sport ethnicity.

Accent: Voice Module: Standard Western United States, Las Vegas dialect.

Height: 5’10’’ exactly.

Weight: 190 pounds.

Cybernetics: This unit is composed entirely from cybernetics, ranging from a steel internal skeleton to metallic alloy arms and legs, even to a degree of weaved metallic fibers in the dermis. Cybernetic hand on right arm is thicker at the wrist, holding sedatives and anesthetic of different concentrations. Legs are air assisted, allowing for bursts of movement, and his left hand’s palm is armed with tasing nodes. His skull is a strong steel alloy, backed up by a thin shell of titanium underneath to protect the vital processing units in the skull. Artificial breathing sound files ejected by speakers in the tonsil area as well as a passive chest movement to simulate breathing is found in this unit, but have been since shut down since creation due to dying speakers and chest malfunctions later in life. Skin had been woven with copper and brass fibers, but most skin has been compromised or decayed to the point of uselessness on the part of the woven-in fibers.

Items: Sedative and Anesthetic, Taser nodes and strong lower body, hard head if headbutting is necessary.

*Appearance: Chigger is a very specific unit. I’ll start from the head down, to make things simple as we go through. Most of the skin on his head has rotted away from time and poor maintenance, although facial skin is intact, it has come away and separated from the remaining skin on the head. Chunks of the skin are gone, revealing gray metal and oiled cables placed and stapled to the metal. His face is cracked and chafed, his skin like the rest of his body, gray and pallid, turning white on some torn edges, flaking with excessive movement. His eyes are devoid of eyelid or actual eye substitute, and instead steel balls rotating in a cylindrical socket, white lights shine from inside, making a white pupil very visible. His neck is exposed on the right side, in place of vertebrae and veins sits cylinders acting as muscles, pulling his head in the directions it needs to go and protecting cords transferring data. His shoulders are not impressive, and the skin on them hangs a bit loose and tears in some areas. His shoulders are thin as far as skin goes, and one can see the intense mechanical constructions holding him together before you look towards his forearms and hands. On the left, no skin exists past the shoulder, revealing the mechanical arm and strange electricity device used to generate enough to taze what needs to be tazed. On his right arm, only his hand and wrist are exposed, the thickened gauntlet of metal holding his various instruments of comfort on the table and his fingers with extendable needles to deliver it. Small individual doses in their own glass containers sit in the wrist, sliding up to the tip of the finger to be used on something. Covering his chest and half his arms is a nearly perfect white labcoat, and black khakis with no shoes. Instead, toeless robotic, gray feet sit, ankles gone, revealing his revamped ankle joints inside.

*Biography: NOTE: This will be filled out in full fashion in a bit, or until I can work it all out, but instead i’ll shorten what I have for now. It’ll be in sort of a log fashion from Chigger’s perspective. It will be a more fleshed out Bio later, laid with these entries.

Day 1: He calls himself Dr. Brown, he says am his son. My hands are so smooth, his eyes are shallow and gray. He’s older than me, lips are cracked, cheekbones sharp.

Day 2: New eyes installed. Can see more, where are my legs? The lab is old, no northern wall. Floorboards are removed, floor is rich in clay.

Day 34: Father reinstalled my “brain”, he’s working on my arms, but I can walk now. Floor is harder now, security door is broken, opened to a crack.

Day 203: Father has given me skin. I have not been awake for half a year, and now I can feel my own lips. I can speak.

Day 267: Father has begun teaching me to read, and write. I have written my name. MA-7, Model A, version 7. Supposedly I am old, but Father is helping me become new again.

Day 268: Father says I learn quickly. I can read and write 83 languages. I can walk, and speak. I asked Father why the lab is empty. He shuts me down.

Day 400: I am awakened for emergency fluid replacement. I change my oils. My skin is falling off. Children venture into my room, they are scared. They stabbed at my face, they removed my eyes.

Day 401: I am well, the children have called me “Chigger”

Day 402: I spoke Swahili to them today, I don’t know why. I think my brain is failing.

Day 434: I forgot 82 languages, but my practice with english in my logs is refreshing me.

Day 451: They tell me I cannot stay with them anymore, I must leave. The world is hunting men like me. They called me a “robot”

Day 454: I leave today for the “Crawler”. It will take me away from them, I have removed portions of hanging skin again today, I do not believe I am alive anymore.

Decided to add my own section about weaknesses: Chigger's processing information programs can only go so far, the strain to understand magic aimed at him that doesn't deal damage strains his brain. His arms are relatively weak, made for precise movements and not for intense physical activity. His legs are air assisted though, allowing for bursts of movement to escape incoming damage, but these are going out, so it doesn't work all the time. He also is only knowledgeable on information about the medical field. He holds a teenagers intellect on other fronts and is still attempting to learn, but his model and brain are very hindering to the experience data collection sensors, and so Chigger is forgetful about new information.

[relentless]

When the back of the armour parted like cracking open a wisdom cookie, except with more grace, the back of his own form was able to be seen. He was of average, military build. Slightly more defined and bulk-laced muscles than that of an average citizen. Scars of previous tours such as Iraq adorn the shallow surface of skin.

His skin tone was sun kissed, thanks to visiting these war torn lands that still raged on with extremism, mainly coming from the terrorist groups that constantly instilled hate to invoke more reaction, and gain more followers.

Despite this rambling, the scars do show an uneasy rememberance, however any long lasting effects either physically or mentally have not shown itself for Tiberion.

There were various linings of translucent cybernetics laced underneath muscle and skin, the faint shape of them seemed to bulge out in a slight manner, a faint orange glow from within those wires seemed to die down as he exited.

Along with the mechanical rivet drill removing bolts from his back.

A circular metal dish was wielded into the centre of his back, very thin in size but identical to the size of a dinner plate. The material was a shining aluminium, with holes dimensionally correct to each other across the rim of the circle. Small rivet bolts held down heavy duty wiring that locked into his back like a botfly digging into skin. The drill worked soundly and efficiently, depositing the second last rivet bolt into a small internal compartment where the wires would follow as well. These bolts would be drilled somewhere else, so that they wouldn't jumble around and become scratched, or tangled up in the wiring, so they were neatly drilled into the internal side of the power armour, in a neat row of four and another row of four rivet bolts below with heavy duty wires leading into the back of them.

The last bolt had finally been deposited, the drill whirring to a halt and folding up into the top of the internal power armour. After a few uneasy seconds passed, a depressurised sound occurred, two footlocks that held his feet in place slowly came undone, along with various clamps and exoskeleton shells around his limbs.

The first step outside the power armour occurred, and then another as he held onto the armour, before he stumbled out finally, straightening himself up. Upon exiting, it would appear that he was wearing some form of specialised suit. One made for power armour. The material of the suit itself appeared to be a strong, composite nanofibre material. Very flexible, and durable. Though it's expensive and rare, so making it again in this place was simply out of the question. It neared resemblance to a divers suit with such sleekness, with the exception of the dish sized hole on his back to expose that cybernetic plug. Padding was thickest on the chest, made out of a dark leather, other areas of padding were on the calls and forearms for example, but not as thick as to restrict manuerability. Finally, the camo itself resembled that of an urban English military pattern.

Tiberion would look back at the suit as it closed on itself, engines whirring before it thudded with a resounding metallic thud before he looked back at Marcy, jutting a thumb back at it.

"Yeeeaaah, she's a beaut!"
Tiberion acknowledged with a smile, though it was slightly awkward as he looked back at it agin, and then toward  the Russian  man.

[porkylabrador]

Bee-Bee stomped into the Red Rocket with her usual enthusiasm for walking. In her large black boots it would appear she more often than not tried to emulate the movements of a blundering gargantuan dinosaur from one of the e-list monster vids she'd undoubtedly subjected the sanctity of her mind to. 'Neath both her arms, one of flesh, one of cogs she carried two bright yellow rectangles whose purposes were all-too-clear. "Caution! Wet Floors" were emblazoned in bold black font over each of them.

Before taking her seat at the bar, Bee-Bee positioned the wet floor signs behind where she'd sit, creating herself a small 4ft dome of what she hoped would be personal space. With a dramatic flop she slouched poutily over the bar from a stool, chin resting on her crossed forearms, legs swinging in the air like a child sat at the edge of a bridge.

"Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell a day that'd be better with rum..." She wore the expression of a looked like it belonged more on the face of a kicked puppy, she cast the full weight of her glossy, sad eyes at Spitz. Certainly she didn't feel guilty about trying to seal a group of near-strangers into a corridor of death but it hadn't been on her to-do list either.

[relentless]

Spitz had promptly gone into a small nap, his spider cybernetic limbs lolling about below him as his two real arms rested on his abdomen. A slight snore and gurgle of unconsciousness would permit from him before Bee Bees child story humming persisted, tickling his ears.

He groaned out of fatigue as he woke, rubbing his face with his large (and existing) hand, glancing at Bee Bee from inbetween his fingers.

"Mgh..- Hallo, Bee Bee is it?"
Spitz says as he pivots his hip briefly, picking up a small clipboard. Newly arrived and otherwise we're written down on his clipboard, a brief description of each of them so he could identify who was who in the off chance that one of them went missing or commuted a crime in the red rocket, Spitz would be able to report them, potentially.

His left spider-like metallic limb twitched and raised itself to the clipboard as he held it with his human hand, until he stopped at Bee Bees name.

"Mmm, I see."
Spitz concludes as he taps the board twice with his spider arm, looking up at Bee Bee.

"Well, what'll be? Some of my noodles, German sausage and a drink to wash it down or..?"
Spitz asked as he rouse from his chair, his human hand twiddling it's fingers against the wooden grain. The right spider limb behind his shoulder would tap its steel talons against a small bottle of Captain Morgan, grazingnahainst the label as it stood upon the shelf.

[azmoham]

Marcy traced he fingers up and down the outer shell, humming as she worked over the specs in her mind.
"What's it weigh? Less than a tonne or else the floor would give way...But probably a few hundred, but that'd have to be some pretty seriously dense weave to give any protection...the wiring must be hefty to compensate for the compacted size, but  wouldn't that result in input lag?"
She mumbled to herself as she studied the machine, before suddenly standing upright and drawing her hand back quickly as if bitten. Spinning to face the man who'd emerged from the machine, she tried to offer an apologetic smile before realizing her face was blocked by her helmet, and so shrugged bashfully instead.
"Oh! I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude at all, it's just that, well, it's a real marvel. Hardsuits have never really been my specialty,"
at this she gestured to the custom-built flamethrower hanging at her side
"But this is pretty impressive."
She admitted, her eyes now scanning over the man with just as much studious fervor as they had with the bot. She'd seen plenty of augs, a few of them purpose built to help with machine interfacing, and it seemed this man's were in a similar vein. Half of her wanted to reach out and begin prodding at Tiberium but her more polite half kept her hands firmly at her sides. If there was one very real upside to being surrounded by such a large variety of people, it was that she got to see a wide range of augs and tech. for instance, just from where she was standing she could see a man with a metal plate on his spine, a petite woman with what looked to be a hyper-fine aug hand and another person slumped over the bar with a rather finely crafted, if poorly buffed, metal arm. Such things were a joy to her, to study and to see in action, if only people didn't flinch so much when she tried to get a look at them,

[Unter]

Fyodor stopped smiling, his eyes lost their shine. He looked at the lady and said :
"You like technology huh ? Don't worry, down there, things exist that are Marvel to it's own Kind.
You need to stay sharp. Even here, we may not be safe. That's why I always keep my weapon clean and ready to go."
He spits on the floor.
"Those fools that covets the knowledge of what is below brought technology to this abyss. At least that's what my father said."

He then completely changed of mood. He laughed loudly. "Hahahaha ! Let's not talk about these grim things anymore. We have plenty of time to see this folly by ourselves. Now Tiberion, you have no reason to refuse a shot of vodka ! Come here, big guy !"

[relentless]

Tiberion hummed as the woman fired a bunch of questions at him, making him raise a slow eyebrow of amusement, turning to the woman with a click of his tongue and a wetting of his lips with his tongue. He had overh are her mumbling, a growing interest forming over the woman as she went forward with an elaborate sense of science.

"The suit itself is a strong alloy of none ferrous metals: Titanium, Carbon steel and aluminium. Naturally they're resistant to many forms of damage such as blade, explosive, fire, bullet based weaponry. Of course with the weight being approximately... 626 KG, it should be impossible to move even by power armour standards, since this is the first model of a new, prototype series."
Tiberion pjaused as he rubbed his bald scalp briefly, moving alongside the Russian man.

"Yeeeet... it has a design that allows it to move."
Tiberion teases with secrets, humming joyfully as he pulls up a chair and sits down.

"A shot please, I won't have too many since I need to store my suit..."
Tiberion informs with a pat on the back, followed by a northern chuckle, before he glanced up at Marcy.

"Won't you sit with us? I'd love to discuss with you, with the brillliant mind you apparently have."
Tiberion asks as he nudges a chair opposite him forward, raising his eyebrows at her.
"Come onn, you seem awfully nice. It would be a shame to refuse such company."

[azmoham]

The engineer paused, glancing over her shoulder back towards the door. She'd really ought've left by now, and extending her stay seemed impertinent. But then again, there'd just been a breach, and it was unlikely there'd be another, and it wasn't as if the Crawler was swarming with dark magic and rogue AI, these past few days she'd spent more days sitting in the barracks reading a holo-mag or browsing the net than she had actually out on patrol, so it's not as if she'd be less productive than usual. With a shrug, she reached up and undid the clasps on her helmet, pulling it off so she could properly introduce herself to the man.
"I guess I could stay for a little while, but I'll need to get going at some point, wouldn't be good to have the captain catch me here on-duty."
She explained.
"I'd sit but well, Hephaestus here makes that a little difficult."
She chuckled, once more pointing to her favorite weapon. She recalled the long nights spent toiling over nearly hundred-year old schematics used by the U.S. in the world wars and Vietnam, trying to improve them, studying alloys and chemical mixtures. Her quest to build this machine had led her through almost every area of academia, from chemistry to history, and had resulted in more than one all-nighter spent tinkering with prototypes and half-baked ideas and lumps of parts she was struggling to configure into what she hoped to be the pinnacle of design. The rush she'd felt when she'd first tested it, and that beautiful cloud of flame had plumed out in front of her, was one of her most cherished and oft-revisited memories. Honestly, she considered Hephaestus more of a companion than a mere weapon or tool, something, someone, she could rely on.

[Unter]

Fyodor raised an eyebrow when Marcy said the weapon's name. "Hahaha ! You named your weapon ? Is it really that special ?"
He took a long drink at the bottle and handed it to Tiberion.
"In soviet Russia, it brings bad luck to name your weapon. Some say that when the name is given, the weapon gain a soul of its own. And that it won't hesitate to act with its own will.
Do you believe that, Marcy?"