Awkward. That's how it felt for Qwenthur to clamber down into the cockpit, knowing he had spent more time in it than the current pilot.

Sitting in the absurdly expensive chair was not the 37th CMB's cute little Princess, but an orange clad woman who seemed to have abandoned all efforts regarding her self-presentation. SSAA Cunningham had no trace of make up so without her unusual hair colour Qwenthur might have thought someone else had invaded the Object's nerve centre. What's more, she was slouching - in an ergonomic chair, somehow this supposed Elite was slouching.

He shook his head in an attempt to dispel such thoughts and reviewed his job list, the reason he had to join her in the surprisingly small space.

"Wow, there really is a refrigerator in here. And a microwave oven... It's like a camper van." he thought aloud.

A squelching sound drew his attention back to the redhead. She was flexing her fingers against the pressure of gloves wrapped in insulation tape.

"Maybe this isn't going to work." she grumbled. "Sticky. Cleaning the console will be a pain if the adhesive runs fluid from heat."

Qwenthur sighed. "Coira, is it alright if I pull the freezer out for a bit?"

The redhead glanced at him over her shoulder. "Cunningham. I don't care, it's not my Object or my freezer."

The surprisingly cold look in her eyes unsettled him. He got to work quickly. The fittings for the power supply and brackets holding it in place were still solid, even after all the strain Melinda had put her war machine under last time. The freezer unit itself was unharmed so the cockpit would not ice-up nor the cooling system overheat. The fridge was the same. So was the microwave and its special coating. Next up was the ejection system.

"I'll be looking at the safety and ejection systems." he announced.

"Aye. Restraints secure, but a bit loose. Tighten them up and make sure to recalibrate the stabilisers for my greater mass."

The belts are loose? Greater mass? Havia did say she is muscular...

"Then I shall do the recalibration first."

He had grown very familiar with every part of the huge machine, though this time he didn't know what values to expect from Cunningham in the pilot seat. He knew Melinda's weight and centre of gravity and the battalion staff worked hard to keep the former consistent, so the ejection stabilisers never needed more than a few tweaks. Altering the settings was potentially dangerous - even lethal if done poorly.

Bad luck working on these, according to the engineers. Thus, it always became his job. He got to chat with the Princess because of that, so it wasn't all bad.

The computer chimed as it finished taking measurements through the sensors built into the chair. Qwenthur's eyes widened.

"Oi, seriously? That's a major overcorrection. There must be some mistake. You'd smash into the back of the cockpit."

The redhead snorted and slapped her hand next to the ejection button. "It's probably accurate. The technology has been well tested, no? That's the same device you always use and the First Lieutenant has never had a failed ejection."

"No way, these readings are crazy." he insisted. "Your weight somehow is more than twice what it should be and pulling forward. The sensors must be faulty."

He looked up to find Cunningham watching him fret from over her shoulder. "I have a low centre of gravity. Call it 'foot heavy' if you like, but I'm sure the readings are accurate. If you don't trust them I'll make the adjustments myself."

Qwenthur sighed. "I don't get it at all. I'll ask granny to check them after I finish everything else."

"You're just a student, right?"

The blond nodded, picking up his tools and shifting to the left side of the cockpit. "Technically not an engineer, but I have been in a strange position thanks to my plans resulting our victories."

Cunningham arched a brow. "I suppose its inaccurate to call you a combat engineer as much as a student, though. Regardless, I will see to it that the ejection system is properly calibrated. You can move onto the next item on your list."

"Seatbelts." he read aloud, a suspicious frown pulling at his lip. "I don't want to touch those again."

"Then don't, I'll do it myself."

"Did you maintain your own Object while training? When did you find the time?"

"I learned a lot in the last few months." she shrugged in disinterest as she picked up a thick manual already open. "I get bored easily."

Qwenthur hummed in thought. "Then... Did you also learn how to pilot the Baby Magnum in the time since your transfer? I've been wondering for some time, but Froleytia didn't seem to think anything was strange. Aren't Elites trained for only their Object?"

The redhead turned several pages before responding. "You must have learned as much by now - either through your studies or in speaking to the First Lieutenant. An Object takes years to build, but it can be ready for any pilot any time. On the other hand, the difficulty of manning so many systems at the same time is almost impossible for as single person. Each object is like a obsessively picky cocktail connoisseur, and each Elite is a cocktail. If you don't make it perfectly the Object becomes more difficult to handle. At that scale, hundreds of tonnes and over a hundred weapons in addition to the drives and power regulation, ignoring a system for three can get you killed."

"Especially if the enemy Elite is in perfect sync with their own Object, or has an environmental advantage." he agreed. "In this case, the wrong cocktail has been served to the connoisseur. Isn't that a major issue?"

Cunningham shrugged again. "It's not like the connoisseur was served beer or wine. My Object may have been second generation but it was pushing past standard limits. It's not too different from Baby Magnum, though it has a few extra systems to manage. As the Major said, the difference in complexity should allow me to perform at an acceptable level."

Qwenthur shuffled around to her left and began checking the shielding in the console. "A specialised Object cannot be better than a general Object in every area. Was yours to try and compensate for the glaring weaknesses for unsuited terrain, for the off chance you have to fight there?"

"In a way, but not really, no." she muttered, thumbing past several pages. "Oceanic Driver - as the name suggests - is a maritime Object. On the ocean its no different from Baby Magnum, using powerful main guns to destroy Objects or bombard targets and the secondary weapons as required is the standard for Object warfare. Only so much can be done there with technology, so Oceanic Driver uses other factors to outperform an enemy Object."

"Agility? Does it have some drive system to increase its speed?"

Cunningham tilted her head. "Close. It floats using air cushions, which leaves it slower than electro static drive Objects like Baby Magnum. Oceanic Driver has large ballast tanks around its base like a skirt, which it can use to alter its centre of gravity as well as overall mass. What do you think of that?"

Qwenthur's hands stopped moving. "Ballast tanks... If you shift all the weight to one side it can turn in a tighter arc, for dodging as much as lining up a shot. If the tanks are all filled at once in combination with opposing thrust it could stop suddenly - conversely purging the tanks could allow a sudden burst of speed."

"Precisely. In theory Oceanic Driver should have a great advantage in mobility. Unfortunately, that isn't enough to make it worth over five billion euros - not when other methods grant more speed and agility without weighing down an already heavy Object with seawater and making it a bigger target with tanks."

"That's right." he sighed at her picking apart his thoughts again. "Deep Optical would tear something like that to pieces easily. It needs another means of competing with second generation Objects or else its little better than an overweight first generation."

"Got any ideas, battlefield student?" the Elite asked as she fixed him with those unnaturally green eyes. "Remember Water Strider? Mobility has a price. If your Object is bigger than most, even if it's more agile, how can you make it a true 'king of beasts' even so?"

Qwenthur frowned and thought hard. "Water jets could increase its agility further. It would have to take on water all the time."

"Not only that, but the effectiveness of water jets is suspect. Even if it is effective it could strain the Elite. There are ways to make water jets practical, but that's not the method chosen for Oceanic Driver."

"Then... The only option left is firepower, but you said-"

"That there are limits to our technology? So I did. Go back to the ballast tanks and think again. Don't be boring." Cunningham smirked, returning her attention to her manual.

"Ballast tanks... Technological limitations... Weapons..." he mumbled as the gears of his mind churned. "Wait... Storage tanks... Ammunition isn't usually a problem with standard main guns, but with a high fire rate there is a possibility of running out."

The Elite exhaled forcefully and sat straight. "I guess you are having trouble without seeing the Object in action. Oceanic Driver uses plasma canons powered by its reactor, but as powerful as it is if you fire too quickly the guns overheat. Seawater can be used as emergency coolant, so the next problem is energy consumption. Even an Object reactor has limits."

"Those are some amazing limits, though. Still, if an Object were to surpass those limits... It would have to be spare capacitors! Before going into battle the reactor's excess energy is collected in capacitors so the Elite can alleviate any strenuous power draw."

"There you go." she nodded, jabbing the book in his face. "Now I suggest you get back to work."

"I have another question though."

Cunningham blinked, then slouched back into the seat and turned a page. "What is it?"

"Can you pole dance?"

The Elite paused to glare at him from the corner of her eye. "Where did that come from?"

Qwenthur held up both hands in surrender. "Ah, wait, it's just that Froleytia and the Princess can, so I was wondering..."

"The Major works hard and the First Lieutenant has to stay strong enough to ignore the G forces of high speed combat, but it doesn't mean every woman can."

"Then, every Elite can?"

The redhead snorted and returned her eye to the manual. "Not every Elite, but most. Major Copacabana could if he tried."

The blood drained away from Qwenthur's face in record time. "Er, so you can't?"

"Indeed, its beyond my ability. Even if... No, absolutely impossible."

Qwenthur frowned at how care free she seemed about the turn he had taken the conversation. Froleytia would have gloated, the Princess would have either given off a sense of danger or ignored his provocation. Half the women on the base would either kick his ass or get so flustered they couldn't respond. For Cunningham to be so calm... It was kind of boring.

"Why not? You have similar training to the Princess."

"It's a matter of basic physics." she replied as she flicked through a dozen pages. "I understand how it works, but I won't break things on such a whim."

The blond student sagged and looked back at his task list. Coira Cunningham was chatty, but careful of her words. He wasn't going to get anything out of her.

"Er, sorry if I asked something that made you uncomfortable."

The Elite shrugged. "Adolescents have those kinds of thoughts. I saw plenty of it in hospital. Keep your apologies for when you actually mean them."

"No, I really am sorry." he insisted. "I'm just trying to find a way for the Princess to relax. I kinda thought a rivalry with you in something unrelated to Objects might help."

At that the woman in the chair sighed and put her manual aside. She leaned on the armrest and propped her chin up on her arm. "An Elite's wellbeing is of the utmost importance. He or she represents the collective might of an entire battalion, and every decision commands the fate of the battalion. If you want to help the Princess, ask Capistrano or one of the care-staff. It their jobs to know what to do, even if they can't do it."

"If they knew they would have done something by now." he reasoned as he began putting back everything he had moved. "Froleytia is busy and under a lot of pressure right now, so I can't ask her."

"So, I must not be under much pressure, then." Cunningham scoffed before sitting forward and resting her hands on her knees.

He ducked his head. "Well, I didn't mean it like that..."

"Brantini is in a strange position right now. She is uncomfortable, don't you know? Ever since she was assigned to this battalion she has been its Princess and nearly a thousand lives had placed their trust in her skills. At the moment there are no lives resting on her shoulders, there is no Object within reach, and to top it all off someone else is taking her place."

Qwenthur swallowed. "As I thought, she's having quite a hard time."

"That's an insulting understatement. If you understand her position then why are you spending your time talking to the very person who has taken her place? Have some awareness, Barbotage."

He ran a gloved hand through his hair and sighed. "Ah, I screwed up."

"Right now you should think of a question about the maintenance work you are doing, and then ask her instead of the Chief. Her head is full of the Baby Magnum anyway. You need to make her feel needed and relied upon - be an oasis of familiar burden for her to latch on to in the storm."

"Oi! We're here to work, not to wax poetic philosophy! Are you finished yet, boy?"

"Almost!"

"Almost doesn't cut it on the battlefield! Hurry up or I'll throw you out of my workshop with a shelf of textbooks!"

"Uwa, granny is pissed today too."

"That's Chief maintenance officer to you, student." Cunningham shot back. "Get finished and get out so I can call a real engineer down here to adjust the seat."

"Eh? Then granny will find out I slacked off! You said you'd do it."

The redhead narrowed her eyes at him, sending a chill down his spine with her cold tone. "Oceanic Driver doesn't use a chair. I can't do anything to this Object besides pilot it after only a week of study."

Qwenthur felt dread growing in his gut. "I don't want to die." he mumbled, slowly gathering his tools.