"Are you certain about this?"

Alia sat on the couch in the Spartans' quarters, nervously looking up at the young man before her. Weaver seemed to find her anxiety mildly amusing, but not in a cruel capacity―more that he understood, and knew that there was nothing to be scared of. "Absolutely," he answered calmly, "This ain't my first rodeo. Go ahead and lie down with your arms over your head."

The serpent did as she was told, laying herself out on the couch in the Spartans' quarters and placing her hands above her head. It had been a few days since the Snake Eaters had been brought aboard, and the viper was recovering nicely. However, she had been experiencing some persistent physical discomfort recently, and had brought the issue to Weaver since he was meant to be the expert. The mercenary had immediately asked several questions about her daily routine and exercise regimen. He was somewhat disappointed to hear that the serpent did not do much in the way of physical conditioning outside of missions (which were admittedly a rather intense workout in their own right).

As Weaver rolled up his sleeves and cracked his knuckles, Leonidas walked into the room. He eyed the scene in front of him with a mixture of confusion and mild suspicion. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Not at all," the bearded man answered, looking up, "In fact, you should sit in on this. Since you're usually―As the one usually charged with Alia's care, this is something that you should learn to do."

As he spoke, Alia made note of an interesting quirk of his speech patterns. Weaver had a strange habit of doubling back on sentences seemingly at random. It felt like something that should have made his speech difficult to understand, but it was actually quite easy to interpret; whenever he reset a sentence, the cut-off version could simply be ignored, as all he usually did was reword it anyway. The viper made a mental note to ask him about this sometime, though she would have to wait for the right time; Weaver seemed like a very genuine and sensitive man, and she didn't want to make him feel self-conscious.

"And what am I learning, exactly?" Leonidas cocked an eyebrow, stepping forward to lean on the armrest where Alia had set her head. He looked down at her, smiling. "Hi." She returned the expression, enjoying the lighthearted moment.

"Vipers have some extremely powerful core muscles," the young Snake Eater explained, totally uninhibited by the silent exchange in front of him, "Though you probably already knew that. The thing is, if those muscles spend too much time in odd positions or just go too long without being stretched properly, they start to cramp and knot, causing mild pain, stiffness, and general discomfort. Even with proper stretching techniques, tension can slowly build up in the tissues, causing similar problems." He suddenly fixed Alia with an unexpectedly intense gaze. "Have you experienced any irritation? Itchiness, tingling or numbness?"

The serpent's eyes widened. "I… Well, I have noticed some periodical itchiness in my abdomen and tail, but I believe that is all. Those other symptoms sound serious―should I be worried?"

He shrugged. "I should think not. The lack of―If you had encountered those, it would be reason to worry. But you haven't, so don't." Weaver returned his attention to his fellow human. "If she ever mentions such things, don't wait. Seriously; that shit can cause nerve damage."

Leonidas did a double take. "From stiff muscles?!"

"It has something to do with the interaction between human and viper DNA―which actually applies to all modern vipers to some degree." Weaver explained, sounding as if this was the most normal thing in the world. "Something about the combined muscular structures into a single unit… They tend to run―They don't always play nice. Usually, it just results in some minor shit: scale itch and stiffness. More serious symptoms only really crop up when the viper in question hasn't been taking good care of herself; poor nutrition, excess physical strain, lack of sleep, shit like that. That, or a botched gene splice, which is both rare and not the case here."

Neither Spartan bothered to ask how the mercenary knew all of this. He was brought on-board due to his expertise… so it should have come as no surprise that he was an expert. Motioning for the Spartan King to pay close attention, he got down on one knee next to the couch and placed his hands on either side of Alia's abdomen, feeling around for a moment before beginning to knead gently. The serpent was immediately surprised at the apparent strength of the young man's hands; a viper's tough scales would normally complicate such a procedure due to their relative rigidity, but Weaver's fingers seemed completely unimpeded, firmly working down into the flesh beneath. The second thing that Alia noticed was that, despite his powerful grip, the mercenary was still very gentle, applying no more pressure than necessary. The third thing that hit her was how intense the sensation was.

Reflexively, the viper's arms shot down to her sides. "Alia," Weaver said softly, "I need you to keep your arms up. It's important to keep your tissues stretched."

"S-sorry," she hissed, embarrassed, "I-I am not certain that I can do that."

The gunsmith paused. Never looking up from his work, he said: "Leonidas, would you be so kind as to hold her arms in place? No need for a ton of force―just keep them up."

Leonidas complied, reaching down to grab Alia's hands and pulling them toward himself. As he did so, Weaver continued to massage the viper's abs, laser-focused on the task while simultaneously providing verbal commentary to help the Spartan Leader learn. The process was not particularly hard, though knowing where and how to apply pressure was still important, as well as the fact that it was not to be rushed; slow, methodical movements were key. Some areas required more attention than others, and identifying these spots had to be done on the fly, as they would not necessarily be consistent.

As the man worked, Alia let out a very human-like sound somewhere between a moan and a grunt. Leonidas was stunned by this, though Weaver seemed unfazed yet again. In moments when she wasn't overcome by the mixture of sensations and could focus on the outside world, the viper looked up at her partner with an open smile that he had a hard time deciphering.

This was interrupted when Weaver finished on her abdomen and stepped back. He gestured to her tail while looking at the Spartan King. "Now you try. Her arms don't have to be held for this."

Taking a deep breath, Leonidas took up position by the viper's lower body and attempted to mimic the techniques that he had just observed. He had admittedly been rather distracted, but he had absorbed enough information to get the gist of it. Alia practically glowed with excitement as her friend attempted to massage her upper tail with Weaver's guidance. In return, Leonidas felt a great deal of confusion as to why this was exhilarating the serpent to such a degree. This elation seemed to intensify every time his hands made contact, which made absolutely no sense to the super-soldier.

After a minute or two, Weaver nodded approvingly. "You're a quick learner. I think you've got it from here, so I'll leave you to it; I've got some stuff to do." As he walked out, he added over his shoulder: "Give me a holler if you need anything!"

Leaving the two Spartans to enjoy themselves alone, the mercenary stepped out and made his way back to the workshop, where he had established a work setup for himself to load ammunition as per the Commander's wishes, as well as tinker on some side projects. The emotions in that room had been some of the most intense that he had ever encountered, and Weaver silently hoped that Alia would take the opportunity to show her teammate how she felt. It was painfully obvious that she was madly in love with him, but Leonidas seemed ignorant. Not oblivious… more that he simply did not understand what love felt like. A shame to be certain, but not impossible to address in due time.

Taking a seat at his workbench, Weaver produced a pair of earbuds from his pocket connected to an old MP3 player. Selecting a track and clipping the device to his belt, he nodded his head along to the song as his hands got busy preparing cartridges. This setup wasn't as nice as his home workshop, but it got the job done. Since XCOM already had most of the components needed for ammo loading, his job mainly revolved around balancing powder levels and milling pre-made bullets to have more consistent properties. The fact that this organization―which was supposed to be humanity's best hope for survival―still used 5.56mm rounds in their standard service rifles was pretty disgusting, considering how advanced their opponents were, but seeing as he lacked the time or resources to change that, Weaver consoled himself with the fact that he could still get the maximum possible performance out of each round. If XCOM was going to use garbage, it was at least going to be high-quality garbage.

What people often failed to realize was that Weaver was not skilled in that he was extremely fast in his work. Rather, he excelled in slow, meticulous work to achieve high-quality results. The fact that he didn't have to forge and mill the bullets from scratch definitely made things move faster, though he was still producing only a few dozen rounds a day on average. No other hand-loader left on Earth could make ammo of such quality―because none of them were crazy enough to be as insanely detail-oriented. Weaver not only milled his bullets to the micron (with the help of electronic tools), but measured gunpowder to the grain. As in: grains of gunpowder. Many would argue that this was redundant, but after seven years of supplying his brother with ammunition for missions in which every shot counted, no measure was too intense. And unlike XCOM, the Snake Eaters didn't make a habit of missing.

Sitting on the desk next to him were two pistols that he had only recently finished building. They were rather unique pieces; styled after the old Mauser C96, but chambered in the much more modern 5.7x28mm cartridge and revamped with some new features, including a somewhat-blocky integrated suppressor and a fixed blade protruding from the butt of the grip, much like a karambit. The suppressor on either gun sat flush with the bottom of the magwell, which was built to accept both stripperclips and detachable magazines. Dubbed the Gemini, they were a custom order for a very dear friend with very particular tastes, but more importantly, the skills required to use such odd weapons effectively on a modern battlefield.

Frankly, the setup here on the Avenger was sub-par by Weaver's standards. He had access to a solid supply of tools and materials, but he was much more accustomed to a greater degree of precision, with facilities designed specifically to suit his particular needs and goals. This stuff was alright, but matching the product quality that he normally provided was quite the challenge, especially considering that he was supposed to go from supplying the Snake Eaters' tiny outfit to the much larger XCOM project. The Commander's expectations were amazingly unrealistic, bordering on unreasonable. And given the man's track record, the mercenary wasn't entirely convinced that this line wouldn't be crossed. All the while, he was rather annoyed at the ammunition choices being made by the group that was supposed to be humanity's best hope.

After what couldn't have been less than two hours, the young man sensed a presence approaching. He glanced up as the door slid open, and immediately looked back down at his work, suppressing a heavy sigh as another man walked in, wearing an engineer's uniform. "Hello, Analog," he said politely, "Is there something you need my help with?"

"Just checking in," the engineer said flatly, trying (and failing) to sound friendly, "It's been a long time since we saw each other." He spoke with a thick Russian accent, stood six centimeters shorter than the gunsmith, and had an even scrawnier frame.

Not long enough…

"It's been two months, Analog," Weaver retorted, rolling his eyes slightly, "You've been running with us for four times that. And I know damn well where you've been and why you're here, and how the two directly correspond."

The rebel tech was silent. He had always been stumped by the gunsmith's ability to predict his words, leading to an ongoing 'investigation' on his part into Weaver's psionic power, convinced that the man was a telepath, rather than a mere empath. Mike Orlov, also known as Analog, had been assigned to the Snake Eaters eight months ago after his original partner was killed in action, and ever since then, he had never missed an opportunity to push Weaver's buttons. While the empath never sensed any real malice in him, he did detect an amount of joy that the engineer derived from such interactions, leading to a quiet but very cold resentment toward the man. Two months ago, Razor had put him on the Avenger as a sort of benign spy to better keep an eye on the situation with Alia, as well as help ensure that things were running smoothly with XCOM. Such agents played a very important role in their boss' organization; the moment Alia had fallen ill, Analog had alerted his employer immediately, allowing for more preparation time and a faster response.

Analog stepped forward, examining the contents of the workbench. Without lifting his head, Weaver fixed him with a hard look that wasn't quite a glare―but sent the same message. He knew that the older man would want to lay down as much criticism as possible of his reloading process, and he wanted absolutely none of it. The gunsmith debated accompanying the look with a low growl in order to ensure that this got through to the engineer―who was often ignorant of such things―but this was not necessary, as Analog saw his friend's steel gaze and kept his mouth shut. Instead, he picked up one of the Gemini and examined it.

"Put that down," Weaver said firmly, pausing for just a moment.

"I remember seeing these before I left," Orlov said thoughtfully, unfazed, "Definitely quite different from how they were then. And a lot less useful, too. The frames are too heavy, the suppressor unit is too bulky, and don't even get me started on these blades―those are a total liability." He set the pistol down, just as Weaver was about to stand up and snatch it from his hand.

The gunsmith gritted his teeth. "The heavyweight reinforced frames allow for increased recoil control and durability, and are light enough to be―they won't be a problem for the one they're designed for, who's much stronger than you or I. The size of the suppressors is necessary to achieve the desired noise reduction without making them too long, and the blades are designed to be useful as emergency slashing weapons in hand-to-hand combat."

Orlov frowned, shaking his head. "This is not how it works. Simply making the suppressor bigger will not reduce noise."

Weaver clenched his fists, wrestling to keep his rising tide of emotions in check.

Prick…

Is he right? Are these bad guns?

I told you those suppressors were too big!

"That is exactly how it works, Mike. The exact system inside those units is more advanced than a standard can. No, I will not explain it, because I don't want to."

Analog shrugged. "As you say," he responded dismissively, clearly entrenched in his own belief, "That still does not excuse the blades. A pistol grip is not very efficient as a melee weapon. Japan researched it during World War Two."

Weaver said nothing. At that moment, he simply could not formulate a response, so instead of stammering like a fool, he simply remained silent, trembling ever-so-slightly as his entire body tensed. "Shut up," he managed to say, forcing it out through a snarl and trying not to scream.

"Maybe you should spend more time designing weapons that are effective instead of focusing on making them unique." Michael grinned smugly―an expression that the gunsmith hated with a burning passion.

Before he could continue his little power trip, Orlov was cut off by a familiar, much more welcome voice. "What's going on in here?" Razor asked, stepping into the room, "Analog, you were supposed to be running maintenance on the navigation subsystems five minutes ago."

"Sorry, Razor!" the engineer said hurriedly, racing out of the room. Weaver sensed his boss grow rather annoyed at that, and looked up from his work.

"Hey, Boss," he greeted simply, offering a small smile, "Can I ask what's got you riled up?"

"Call me what you will," Razor muttered, "I hate it when the people who answer to me treat me like I'm their buddy instead of their boss. It's… patronizing."

"I patronize you all the time."

"Not really, you don't. Regardless, you've earned that ability; you're actually my friend. On the other hand, Mike is constantly whining that I don't run things with an iron grip like some kind of toxic old-world officer, then turns around and talks to me like I'm not his boss. Hypocrisy boils my blood."

"I hear ya," Weaver agreed, "What brings you 'round here?"

"Wanted to see how you're settling in," the hacker answered, calming down as he reached the desk, "Make sure you're being treated well, and that you're able to get comfortable."

Weaver shrugged. "I'm alright. It's my fourth day aboard, and I've already got my own workspace, so that's pretty nice. Gotta admit, though: I'm worried about the status quo here. I get a sinking feeling that the Commander ain't gonna be happy with my work."

Razor nodded grimly. "Yeah, I feel ya. Old bastard's likely gonna take a 'quantity over quality' approach, obsolescing his decision to make you a loader here."

"Oddly specific prediction."

"Yeah, well, making predictions is a big part of my job, and he's fucking predictable. Good decision-making isn't really his strong suit."

"Can't really argue with ya there. He's got some solid folks under him, though. Tygan seems to respect the scope of my expertise, Shen is happy to help me do my job… I dunno about Bradford, though. I'd say he's a pretty reasonable guy overall, but I think he's not sure what to do with me; he's a little uncomfortable when I'm around."

"That sounds about right. John is a good guy. Not perfect, but no one is. He's probably just a little perturbed by your abilities―still figuring out how to treat you."

"I can respect that."

For a moment, both were silent, then Razor looked down at the Gemini. "I don't think I've seen these yet. They for who I think they're for?"

Weaver nodded, feeling a hollow pit form in his stomach. Fifteen minutes ago, he had been proud of those pistols. Now he couldn't help but feel rather neurotic. "Analog was lighting them on fire when you walked in."

"Can I pick them up?"

"Go ahead."

Razor gently lifted the Gemini, wrapping his fingers around the grips and getting a feel for their weight and balance. "I'm guessing… C-Ninety-Six inspired, with integrated suppressors?" Once again, Weaver nodded. "Pretty neat. Kinda on the chunkier side, but I'll bet recoil is an absolute breeze. What caliber?"

"Five-seven."

The hacker gave a low whistle. "Snazzy stuff. I really like the karambit blades―might be hard to make 'em work for most people, but these aren't built for most people. Besides, they look badass."

Weaver smiled. Razor had always been somewhat biased when it came to appraising the gunsmith's inventions, but he was genuine all the same. It felt good to know that someone else appreciated his work aside from the intended users. The gnawing in his gut subsided, and he suddenly realized that he had been having trouble breathing properly―as that problem faded, too. "I should have some ammo somewhere, if you wanna shoot them sometime."

"I might just take you up on that offer," Razor said with a lopsided grin, "But not today; I have other shit that needs my attention." He started to turn, but halted. "Actually, there's one more thing." He reached into his satchel and produced a thin, curved device that looked like it was meant to be mounted to a forearm. A tacpad, much like the one Razor wore on his own arm. "Little gift for ya. If you lose contact with the team over radio, you should at least be able to contact Max with this, and in turn, me. I don't have many, so don't lose it."

The empath nodded, securing the device to his arm and making a mental note to run any necessary calibrations later. With that, Razor turned and walked back through the door. Almost immediately, Weaver felt a pulse of joy from him. "Hey, there's the dynamic duo!" the young hacker exclaimed, "I see we're feeling better, eh?"

Glancing up, Weaver saw Leonidas and Alia pass by, with his boss joining them as they continued on their way. Very soon, the viper would be ready for field work again, and the Spartans would once again be at full strength. Subsequently, XCOM would no longer have any immediate need for the Snake Eaters to stick around. But something told him that their tenure on the Avenger wouldn't be so short, and that leaving wouldn't be as straightforward as just walking away.

What are we doing? What are we going to do?

I don't like this.

What have we gotten ourselves into?