[i]Well.. this is something. Where exactly am I? It's dark. Let's see... can I- ah, damnit. Okay. I'm inside of something. What is that something. Surrounded by metal... feels like I'm sitting on... leather. Oh. I see.[/i]

Mjolnir hummed to life at the flick of a button on the overhead switchboard, the exo letting out a strained groan as its joints pressurized and depressurized, steam hissing out from release valves. Sven blinked quickly as the warm red light flooded the cockpit, the command console and switchboard's white LED glow searing his retinas. The light only hurt his eyes though, the only pain in his head from where he smacked it earlier trying to stand. So no hangover. Today would've started well if it weren't for the warmth on The warm sensation on his forehead meant he was bleeding. He wiped to confirm. Red. Confirmed.

A swipe of the hand across Mjolnir's console brought it down to its knees as the back plating hissed and opened wide allowing its pilot to climb out and land on the garage bay floor with shaky legs. Sven surveyed the room, everything in place, bar Mjolnir who was now abandoned in the center of the room. There was a drained bottle of scotch by his workstations and if memory served him right, he had been working on Mjolnir last night. The pile of cigarettes at the base of his workstool testified to that. [i]Cool. Now I know what I did, then. And no hangover. Better than most days.[/i] Sven wasn't wearing a shirt and the burn that covered most of the left side of his chest, from the pecs to the shoulder, where plasma had melted armour to his skin was painfully visible. One of these days he'd make an effort to get a skin graft. Make himself at least a touch more presentable. At least, that was a lie he often told himself. Across from the burn was a tattoo of a black serial number printed above his right pectoral which read "0000832"; it being his assigned number during the prenatal period of his life where he was chemically altered in an artificial womb. Sven rarely went into explaining the serial, still bitter over his origins.

[b] "Good morning, evening or whatever time of the day it is all. I want the team ready to go and in the control room in 10 minutes. Orion out."[/b] Sven groaned and scanned the bay for a shirt, only finding a white wife beater mostly burned to a cinder. [i]Right. Accidentally set myself on fire last night. Well, looks like he was on the Skins team today.[/i] He glanced through the bay, double checking that there was no disaster waiting to happen the moment he stepped out. Satisfied with his survey, he took his leave and broke into a slow jog toward the control room. [b]"Any one who doesn't show up for the briefing doesn't get paid, that's the rule people."[/b] spilled out from the speakers scattered through the ship, drawing a grimace from the Nordic Martian. It wasn't the pay he really cared about. He had enough to get by for a decent amount of time. Before he joined he lived on a diet of meat, carbs, liquor, supplements, and scrap metal. Now the only new addition to his near spartan lifestyle was cigarettes, which he could certainly afford. The thing that got to him was the threat to dock what was rightfully his after a hard days work. Completely unacceptable.

He reached the door, which slid open with a muted hiss, and slid inside, sealing the door behind him. Of course, most of the crew was already in their gear. Sven made eye contact with the boss man and made a brief two fingered salute, which was probably more insulting than it was polite given his current dress, or lack thereof. The dried blood caked to his forehead probably didn't do much to impress the boss either, now that Sven thought about it. Oh well, at least he was getting paid now. 

[i]Always look for them silver linings.[/i]