Snippet #1986284

Kevlar was pleased.

Well, for the most part. He hated flying. No cover, precious little control between you and spiraling, splatty death...and your entire day could be fecked by taking a pigeon to the face. But at least he was the one in control of the suit, rather then a passenger. Speaking of passengers, he had one by the back of the jacket now, who was mercifully very still. Kevlar had snagged his target running from the epicenter of the chaos; a living example just as requested. Fortunately, after a breif struggle, Kevlar had only had to remind his captive that getting free from his grasp meant a one-way ticket several stories straight down. Things were quiet after that. Under his other mechanically advantaged arm, he carried several large and small chunks of exploded technology as he approached the hidden fortress of the LVA, keeping low to avoid detection before making a final approach when all was clear and the massive thing was aware that he was a friendly.

The deck is organized chaos, of course. Other ironman suits hadnt faired as lucky in open combat during the incident. The dead and injured were already carted away, but there was still the heavy smell of metal and blood. Several technicians in clean white coats and Hazmat hoods are waiting for him and his cargo, carefully handling and packing the twisted - and potentially still radioactive - debris. Kevlar was a smart man, but his intelligence was firmly rooted in what might be called 'practical applications', so the theoretical techno-babble of the scientists just makes him go slightly cross-eyed as they chatter amongst themselves before disappearing entirely with their new toys. Another set, with guards, relieves him of his breathing cargo, and finally Kevlar is able to get out of the tin monkey suit.

"How did she do, moi droog?" My friend. Another tech appears at his elbow as a high-tech bracket uses its series of rotating arms to remove the suit, thick Russian accent screwing with the broken English. Most of the LVA was eastern bloc. He was probably one of very few exceptions.

Kevlar gives himself a shake, like a dog dispersing water, when he is free. Damn coffin, is what that thing was. Couldnt feel the air, couldnt smell, couldnt hear but what was filtered in... The cold altitude air of the hangar prickling through his armored tactical uniform was a goddamn blessing, and he relished in being able to see with his own eyes again. He was a covert operative, not a damn tank.

"It moves pretty good, for a refridgerator." He replies in Russian, easing the communications barrier and suprising the mechanic, "Four of those symbiote things at once, only took one solid hit. Got one, got out of town. Not my primary to kill the whole pack."

Looking over the metal, the mechanic shakes his head, "She has a powerful flamethrower, yes? Why rely on the microwave burst? The shorter range-"

"Why'd you have the liver and onions at lunch?" Kevlar interrupts and frowns at the man. The expression is confined to his green eyes - he was still wearing his belacava - but it's still a chilling stare, "I didnt ask how you work, dont ask me why I do what I do."

The mechanic ducks his head and suddenly seems very involved in the readout of a screen in front of him. Kevlar snorts and collects the gear he'd been unable to wear inside the suit before walking away, pulling off the shroud around his head. Off with the gloves, next, so he can run a clean(er) hand through the shock of blood-red hair on his head, beginning to relax from the completion of the mission.

"Chow." he suddenly decides to himself, back in English again, turning towards the bowels of the ship where one might find a galley.