[i]"Why are we still here? Just to suffer?"[/i]

Systems check. Main system engaged. System switched to normal mode.

[i]"Every night I can feel my arm, my leg, even my fingers...[/i]

"Bernard? B.F.F.?"

[i]The body I've lost... the comrades I've lost... it's like they're all still--[/i]

Representing the interests of the Bernard and Felix Foundation, the Spirit of Motherwill is the answer to any battlefield dilemma. If the world calls for wet-work, we answer! No greater good! No just cause!

"BERNARD!"

His attention flicked to right now. First thing he felt was the heat. It was a lit cigarette, hanging from the gray scruff of his beard, like a dog with a bone in its mouth. Second thing was the smell; leather, sweat, disinfectant, iron filings. He let out a booming cough, but the Snake Eater didn't respond to it this time. Ah, that's right. The fight was already over. 

"Hmmh..." he grumbled, taking in the scene around him. The mechanics were working hard on the machines around him, sparks and metal dust giving the air the kind of texture that Bernard liked to wake up to. Not that he'd been sleeping again; no, this was more like... autopilot. He flexed his thoughts, stretched them out, turned the shape of them over. With arthritis in his own little ways, he sorted out his memories and set the heavier ones aside. Those could be looked at later, like cassette tapes in his soul. For the moment, it looked like he had company. He shifted in his comfy cockpit, and raised his eyebrows at the source of the voice below. Looks like it was Donald Anderson trying to get his attention again, good man, that. Bernard couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but he rapped his knuckles on the dull steel of his helmet in good humor. This got a laugh from the big guy below, and the signal intelligence operator wandered off. Systems evaluations, probably, diagnostics-- it was a routine checkup. Bernard took another long drag at his cigarette, and had another one rolled in a jiffy. He watched the smoke spiral up again as he pressed the flat of his palm against the smooth metal encasing his temples. He remembered the girls from earlier... Avice, Maia. Bella had taken a jab, and kitten got her shot in too. He closed his eyes...

And he reached down to the side of his seat. His fingers were too big. Bernard spent some time jostling it back and forth before he was able to find that notepad from earlier, the one that Cecilia had tossed him before the last mission. With all this excitement, he hadn't had time to go over it until now. He looked at the names, no pictures, but descriptions of personalities. He read the papers, and could tell who was who by the way they'd moved, surrounded, encircled the enemy in that last op. Cecilia, to the point, always brusque, tactics with her at the helm moved fast, hit hard, and ended fights quickly. In the B.F.F.'s experience, this way of thinking was exactly the kind that would maximize the chances of survival. It was one of the reasons he respected the kitten so, despite the difference in age. He smiled a wry smile; her decisiveness was a bit precocious, but as long as it got everybody out alive. He paused, considering that confrontation at the bridge. The squad had done just fine, for a first outing. Bernard closed his eyes, trying to visualize the important details. He remembered the way that Edward and Ryder coordinated themselves, a good habit... Elaine was moving safe, fighting smart... Bernard's brow furrowed in concentration, he looked over the neat lines of notes again. Harold Bjornson. That one was tricky. He'd disengaged multiple safeties on his machine, overextended in his positioning, took potshots at a better collected enemy detachment like he was playing some kind of video game. It was like the boy had been raised in VR, not the first time that Bernard had seen soldiers like that. They tended to be impulsive, gamblers with more lives than just their own. Bernard snorted, another plume of smoke staining the insides of his Handou. Not so different than Bernard had been, once upon a time.

At this, Bernard uncoiled from his seat, stepped, leapt, and landed on the workshop floor with a resounding clang. He collected himself, adjusted his jacket, and made his way to the bridge with a nod and wave to whoever of the bustling personnel noticed the old man on his walk. He navigated the hallways like a tank in human form, treading good-naturedly through the halls, implacable even when he was just out for errands. This time he was looking for one Richard Benson. The kids would probably go out and entertain themselves at port. For the moment, Bernard hoped that an Old Snake and an Old Panther could shoot the shit over some liquor. He had some thoughts on his mind.