There was a strange sort of escapism to be derived from looking into his legs, or at least Churchill had always thought so: a sort of reverie that came with watching the warped, misshapen figures of Sundown’s other denizens reflected in warm, stainless steel. 
Over the years, he’d grown accustomed to the wonted, habitual stares of passing Runners as he paced by: He was sure, in different circumstances, he would’ve stared too. 
But with that came the comments: Often they were tame, a “that’s new”, or “look at that!”, but it always seemed to be [i]that[/i] they were talking about, not [i]him.[/i]
[i]That.[/i]
He even recalled, when he’d first arrived in Sundown, that some- long retired- physician had called him a ‘chimera’: Even in his youth, Church had known what that was, some monstrous creature made up from the bodies of others.
But that never seemed to matter, when he had the time to watch the reflections pass: Then, it was his turn to acknowledge how odd everybody else looked, their shapes and features contorted into twisted, skewed echoes. 
Oftentimes, he even laughed, and lingered too long in the act, not that many seemed to mind too greatly.

The first person to ever spot him doing it was Maggie.
She’d been passing for lunch, and had heard his snickering as her eye-patch’s reflection rendered one half of her doppelganger’s face leathery, [i]”If I had legs like that, I’d admire them too,”[/i]- she’d jested, and teased- [i]”Tall and legsy… it’s a shame, if you were blonde you’d be just my type.”[/i]
For most, it seemed a good-natured, therapeutic hobby: It was only fair that on occasion, he got to remark how Chiaki’s warped reflection was so often lopsided, or how very strange Marina looked as she pranced up to him…

Churchill smiled faintly, eyes still fixated on his metal appendages as the world shuffled by. 
The sun was some swirled, flower-shaped orange light, and beneath it all manners of long-limbed, short-bodied sorts glided by. 
There went MacReary, his physique- and infamous robes- belittled to an undecipherable head, and long, wispy tail- and Dominika soon after, a blurred ball of enthusiastic energy. 
And Klaus, bounding ever closer: A cloud of blonde-haired mist which slowly but surely solidified in his approach…
Wait, [i]Klaus?[/i]

In an instant, Churchill snapped to attention, just in time to register his teammate’s greetings. 
He felt the heat rushing to his cheeks: Had they spotted him, enraptured by a series of shapes, like some ill-attentive child?
They made no mention, but still his face darkened with the tell-tale signs of some deep embarrassment, made no better by the approach of Eva and Melanie. 
Clearly, he’d lingered too long again: Lost as he awaited them. 
He cleared his throat, but immediately it tightened again, as though he’d done nothing, “U-Uh. Hey there, Sector V,” he’d greeted, quietly, before spotting Henry and Kenna on their way to joined them. 
He’d reeled so quickly from his woolgathering, he hadn’t even noticed that his Sector were, in fact, late: That is, until Eva had assured him that they weren’t last. 

It took a few more moments for the Sector leader to fully steel himself: God forbid his team knew he was [i]human[/i], after all.
That was all it took, though, a reminder that although he’d indulged in such silly activities, he had at least done so in the right place, at the right time.
“I mean,” he began, exhaling again as he straightened up, and rolled back his shoulders, “Hello, Sector V,” he cast his eyes around, hard as hail, “And what time do we call [i]this?[/i]”
And that, of course, was why it was so important that Sector V in particular never knew of his hobby: Because it was Church’s job to keep them alive, and who would heed the orders of a child at heart?
Better they never saw deeper than his sardonic skin, he thought. Better they never knew it hurt to punish them.

Thinking of which, Church turned his head to Melanie: He grinned, but it was a wry, thin grin, physically synonymous with a grimace, “Who says I can’t punish you? I can punish you whenever I want,” he assured her, tone mocking, “I’m just less likely to do it when you all arrive when I [i]tell you to.[/i]”
He lingered for a moment, waiting for that message to sink in, before throwing his eyes about.
“I’d have you running laps,” he began, although his tone quickly lightened to the likes of being more playful, “But by the time you finish, John Gunner and his government will have died of old age, tardy bunch that you are.”
With that, he took the data-pad MacReary had handed him earlier, and passed it around the group, issuing the order that they read-up before he continued. 

[Hider=DataPad][img=http://fc05.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2014/162/9/1/mission_statement___mission_2_by_celestion-d7lxqe8.png][/Hider]

When they’d finished, Church had mostly regained his decorum, straightening his back further and folding his arms behind it, to maintain a slightly more powerful stance. 
He felt as if- if any of them [i]had[/i] spotted him- he needed to assert himself again, and regain their respect, “Now I know what you’re all thinking. The first sector on the ground in twenty years, aren’t we special?”, he began pacing back and forth in front of them, “And you know what? No, you’re not. You’re unlucky, you’re very unlucky.” 
He nodded, to affirm his point, “Because I have no idea what it was like in Germany, or Belgium, but I was [i]born[/i] down there, [i]raised[/i] down there. And without a drop of the Servitutem in me,” he explained, gesturing broadly to the city outside of Sundown, “And let me tell you, it’s a whole lot worse than you think it is. London is not a city full of singing street urchins, and by no means should you consider yourself [i]at home[/i]. But do you know what it [i]is[/i] full of? Air. And that’s going to be a problem.”

He glanced around again, and eventually stopped pacing, his form growing a little laxer. 
“Your bodies, your genetics, are designed to function at this altitude. You flourish when you’re breathing thinner, oxygen rich air. It’s what makes your heart pump and- when you hit the runner’s high- your head swim. But you won’t have any of that on the ground.”
He frowned, “No. You’re going to feel slow, you’re going to feel lethargic and you’re going to feel sluggish. It’s not just oxygen down there, it’s a whole lot of carbon, and your lungs just aren’t going to be prepared for it…”

Then, his expression weakened, so betray his concern, “So… I don’t want to see any acrobatics on the way down, okay? You aren’t going to be able to maintain it. If you’re in trouble, call for me: Otherwise, keep it simple.”
Churchill scratched the back of his neck, as if it were a worrisome tick, “And I know you think it won’t affect you, but believe me, it will. You aren’t going to be the special cases, not with your genetics. I’m sorry, but there are no miracles, and this is no miraculous life. Trust me on this.”

With that explained, Churchill paused for a few moments- as if to allow everyone time to process what he’d said- before his shoulders dropped, and he sighed wearily.
He had to admit, it pained him to act so authorative at times: He’d seen, particularly in Melanie, that it sometimes drew his Sector’s ire… 
But they could hate him all they wanted, as long as they were [i]alive.[/i]
“Alright… I think that’s everything. If you’re all prepared, then we can-”
He hesitated, and threw a few glances around, “Has… has anybody seen Acacia?”