A scraggy-haired man glanced up from his work at hearing the door open, only to turn back to his job once he confirmed the man behind it. The thick brown gloves he wore had a difficult time fiddling with the intricacies of the piece he was operating upon, but the wastelander managed to latch on well enough. With the loosening of a bolt, Andreis looked up and slapped one arm onto the newly-mounted gun. He grabbed a handle, pushed the weapon forward and then back, and after a moment did it again with a more contemplative frown on his face. 

"Good enough," his voice, deep and rough without being gravelly, rung out softly. The wastelander had only mumbled the sentiment to himself, but the large chambers of the hangar had seized the sound and magnified it. Not it made much difference, aside the clatters and sizzling of the other drivers tinkering with their own vehicles.

Andreis shoved the screwdriver into his coat pocket for the time being, where it jangled alongside the brass knuckles. When Mick had offered them the large chest full of neat little 'instruments' to take and play with, Andreis had been the only one to go for the brass knuckles. He thought, at the time, they might complement what he knew of his fighting style- but without opportunity to practice, the driver couldn't be totally sure until he would already be in a full-blown fight.

As Mick told his new hires to introduce themselves again, Andreis only initially replied, "You had dossiers? Didn't take you for that kind of guy, honestly." 

People who actually had the forethought to write down stuff to keep track were a relative rarity in this world. Not just the folks who kept journals or anything, but those who would create and keep official records of things, like supplies and cash and people, or whatnot. Considering paperwork wasn't exactly any more more fun even before modern civilization burned to a crisp, any new settlement looking to restore some form of law and order had their work cut out for them if they wanted to keep any of their knowledge on paper.

But then Mick and gone and gotten himself drunk, apparently, so it all went in a 180 anyways. The first three to introduce themselves to their employer were a fellow wastelander, what looked to be a soldier straight out of boot camp, and a foxy lady who clearly held a lot of pride in herself. About the average fare for a road crew, so far. 

From the silence that came after Valentine's words, he spoke up, "Andreis Ulysses. My car here is called Wingjack." Another beat of silence came, and he figured he needed a bit more than that. "I don't really have a nickname, so if you want one from me, just make something up. Nothing stupid, though," he picked up the slack, swiveling the gatling gun experimentally again.