Michels Quarters.

Description: The cyborgs room bears little difference from a body shop used for cars. A large tool bench sits against the left wall of the room with two lamps setting upon it, various tools hanging on the wrack on the wall above it. There is also a face down picture of Miles and his sister from several years prior to him being transformed. To the right of the room, the entire right wall is covered in spare arms, legs, chest plates and other parts useful for repairing his artificial body. The back of the room against the far wall sets a large desk made of fine, heavy oak wood with different sized bullets lined up beside one another, with nuts and bolts are scattered over the surface.

The object that draws attention the most is the chair in the center of the room. Capable of leaning back far enough to make whoever sits in it parallel to the floor beneath them, it's surrounded with multiple monitors that are all connected to a large computer in the corner of his room. Small robotic arms hang from the roof over the chair to conduct repairs while the monitors help him keep track of its progress. There's also a large closet to the right beside the work bench which holds multiples of the same outfit he always wears.

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Michel entered his room in all his tattered and shredded glory, which gained him quite a few strange looks in the process. Tearing off the shredded cassock and robes that were now useless in any more of presentation they might have provided, he tossed them off into the corner with abandon, making his way toward the chair in the center of the room where he found himself sitting down. Now leaned all the way back, parallel to the floor, the robotic arms went to work after the dataport in the back of his neck connected with the plug that was attached to the chair. A way that allowed him to physically connect with the monitors around him to help maintain his progress and even direct the arms if needed. They began the tedious task of repairing the dents, the torn off cheek, restoring the levels of lost oil and artificial blood, and even gave him the monthly vitamin pill and diluted water that was required to keep him alive.

It would normally be a long process, but machines had much more precision and speed than the hands of human scientist, the repairs would get done in half the time it would originally take anyone in Section III to complete.

The hour went by rather quickly, as did the repairs. The flesh on his cheek had been fixed, the damaged metal plates had been repaired, and the lost artificial blood and oil had been replaced, all to an extremely refined degree; one wouldn't even know he had been damaged before due to how well the repairs were done. No external marks gave any indication of injury of any kind. The cyborg now found himself standing before the closet, having put on new attire in close relation to the old tatters he once had covering his body, just undamaged and clean. Pulling his gloves on, the cyborg placed his glasses back on and headed out the door.


-----> Exit, Infirmary.

Enter from "THE" mission.
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Darkness. That's all he saw. His visual sensors had finally given out about halfway back and had essentially left him blind to the things around him. Trapped in this world of absolute darkness, the only thing the cyborg could make out aside from the sounds of rushed footsteps was that he was being carried. Rushed toward his quarters as it was the only place with the equipment to conduct repairs, his auditory sensors picked up the sound of a door being thrown open and slamming against the wall before he was carried inside and placed on the chair in the center of the room.

Linking up with the monitors that now overlooked him through the hole in the back of his neck, he was finally able to regain his sight through his wireless access to oversee his repairs. He needed new eyes, a new lung, new chest plate, and a few components of his on-board computer repaired in order to fix the damaged sustained by his most recent sacrifice. Though, it wasn't like it could really be called that since it was all about to be erased and fixed as it if never happened.

The robotic arms went to work on the most vital injury first, that being the injured or otherwise destroyed lung, which would require his entire chest-plate to be removed to allow a new, cybernetic replacement to be installed in its place.

----------------> The Alps Mission


This had to be one of the longest 48 hours she'd ever been through. And now that she was back, she couldn't see it getting any shorter. She'd popped no small amount of stitches, there was an enormous amount of bruising all over her body, and now there was a six in long, two inch deep puncture wound from a damn ghoul that thought it would be cheeky and lay the weapons game.

She takes a chair in her partner's room, watching the flurry of activity around her, and sh can't help but think this is yet another mission where she'd had to rely on him to take on the brunt of the work. The sniper was grateful that the larger of her weaponry had been taken back to the armory, but she still felt the presence of her knives at her back, and the gun on her thigh.

Sighing to herself, she rests her forehead in her palm, elbow on the edge of the chair; this had not been a good night to be human. Even one - in her humble, honest opinion - as good as herself. What a bloody clusterfuck.. Though, to be fair, it could have been much much worse; everyone could be dead, and the abominations could still be roaming about, looking for another town to ravage.

But here they all were, more or less in one piece.

Slumped in her chair, tired as all hell - and looking the part - she thinks perhaps she should head to the infirmary. But she wasn't leaving until her partner was back together, back whole. After all, she'd done quite a bit of damage to him herself.

OOC: Posting as Iscariot NPC Father Flanders

Spoiler:

From across the paladin's quarters, a singular figure entered. It was an average man of slender build, clothed in the cassock of the Roman Catholic Church which, unlike so many in Iscariot, was properly buttoned all the way up. Hands hanging neutrally at his sides, he walked across the room with glaring streaks of light reflecting off the wide lenses of his spectacles. In his right ungloved hand, the man held a sealed crimson envelope bearing the Papal seal and Meabh Eir's name in hand written cursive print. Though confident, the mustached, bald man made no attempts to be overbearing in his admittedly rude intrusion.

"Miss Eir, my name is Father Flanders. I'm sorry to bother you but there is urgent business that requires immediate attention," he said, holding out the crimson envelope to the red haired sniper sitting before him. "You've been selected," he added cryptically assuming that Meabh would already know what he was referring to. Even if he was wrong and she hadn't the foggiest idea, she would be made very aware of the situation upon opening the letter. Due to great service and self-sacrifice in the field, the Vatican Offices had authorized the use of another batch of the regenerator serum. Short of naming her the champion of Iscariot, it was the highest honor they could give. Having spent perhaps too many years entwined with Vatican politics and procedure, Flanders simply too it for granted that the woman before him would be on her way immediately. He had a tight schedule to keep after all.

Her eyes were closed, her hand had begun to shake - adrenaline, fatigue, worry - and there was a pounding in her head that had begun the moment they'd set down on the tarmac. God, she was so tired. She wasn't getting any younger, that was for certain, and she hated the way time marched on without her. Without caring that she'd devoted a life to war and within only a decade or two she wouldn't have the strength to continue it.

If she lived that long.

Dropping her hand to her lap, she rests her head on the back of the chair, staring up at the ceiling when the feeling of someone new entered the room. Looking to the door, she watched as a priest she'd never met - Sanders? Flanders? - strides to her with purpose.

As he introduces himself, and hands off the letter, the sniper can't help but to frown. Selected? Surely, there was some misunderstanding. Why would she be selected? She'd done nothing commendable, just her job; she killed what needed to be killed and saved what could be saved. That wasn't a basis for this letter, a red letter that she'd heard of, but never seen. Sitting up, she takes the letter from him with bloodied fingers, suddenly realizing just how damaged she must look.

The redhead slides a dirty fingernail under the seal, cracking the perfect emblem and opening the heavy stock paper. A single piece of pure white paper appears, and she retrieves it, allowing the envelope to fall her her lap.

The cursive words did not congratulate her.

They told her she was chosen. Told her where to be.

Blinking slowly, she looks up to the Father before her, then to her partner. She didn't want to leave him, not in this state, but this was a summons from the one man she couldn't say no to.

Well, the one man of three.

Tiredly, she hauls herself out of the chair, allowing the red envelope to fall to the ground, and the white, white paper to slip from her fingers. She makes her way to her partner's side, in between a set of the machines working on him, and takes his hand into hers, squeezing once before turning and leaving with Father Flanders.

Though it would be a lie to say Father Flanders wasn't a bit frustrated by all this socializing business between the sharpshooter and a machine, he was decent enough to offer what little consideration he could. Nodding to Eir, he made for the door. "I'll make sure that he has constant security detail. Nothing will be getting in this room, Miss Eir. I can promise you that much," It was a small gesture but it was all the bald man had the time and ability to offer. Besides, soon enough Sister Meabh would have her own recovery to think about.

=====> The Regenerator Serum (Meabh Eir)

The room was quiet now. He was left in the world of darkness he now, though only temporarily, inhabited, with only the occasional beep of the computer and the workings of the mechanical arms suspended over his wrecked frame being audible. Not a pretty sight by any means, but something else caught his attention. He might've been blind but he wasn't deaf, he heard the door to his room open and the small conversation between what was obviously Meabh and some other person, most likely a member of Iscariot, though the words the cyborg took an interest in were "you've been selected".

Not many things in Iscariot warranted such a line, but he could guess one or two possibilities. The next thing he felt was a pressure on his hand before it dissipated, the door to his room closing soon after. It was likely that, if he could walk, he would have attempted to accompany her, but regrettably he was confined to the chair until repairs were made.

This was turning out to be a common thing, how often had he found himself placed under the care of these robotic arms in the past few days? Too many, but they were his only means of repairing any damage he sustained - its not like he could regenerate. Luckily all of his wounds could be tended to at once thanks to the number of arms hanging above him. But it was obvious the artificial lung and spine damage would take priority. The cybernetic arms worked with precision and care that rivaled the most skilled doctors hands as they dove into his now removed chest cavity to replace the destroyed organ with an artificial one, intent on fully restoring his ability to breath to 100%.

There were no doubts in the time that would take, but he had no choice in the matter; regardless of how much he wanted to accompany his redheaded partner into whatever challenge she may now be facing - luckily he couldn't crawl.

A synthetic wrap would most likely find itself wrapped around his damaged spine as well as a few cybernetic augmentations to replace the shattered bone and nerves that were severed, thought for obvious reasons these wouldn't provide any additional protection or reinforcement; they were merely there to get him back to his normal state of mobility. Luckily he couldn't feel the pain a normal person would most likely be feeling without the help of a numbing agent.

His eyes and damaged cybernetics would be worked on with the remaining hands to ensure his sight and proper functions were resorted, overall completing the repairs and bringing the cybernetic priest back to his former glory.

:Systems reactivating...
:loading system outlook - system synchronization at an acceptable 84.29% and rising
:initiating fullbody scan...
:Sustained damage has been repaired, operating at 72% and rising. Estimated time before full system recovery: 1 hour.

The cyborgs newly restored eyes opened, shining a bright green as hundreds of lines of data streamed across his pupils; information about the various repaired systems, newly added lung, fixed spinal column and more. Everything seemed in order. He flexed his fingers, then his feet; both were in working order. He sat up from the chair with his newly restored frame, looking as if he was never damaged in the first place.

He stood, ripping away what was left of the otherwise destroyed robes that covered his body and tossing them into the corner as he made his way toward his closet, picking out copies of each piece of his previously destroyed outfit before slipping them on. Pulling his gloves taut, Miles turned toward the workbench where he handguns were laying. Placing them in the holsters on the back of his waist, along with a few extra magazines, he turned toward the door. He wanted to check on Meabh, and to see what all the earlier commotion was about.

--> Exit.