She claimed a bunk early to ensure that she'd have a place to sleep. Her personal effects are carefully stowed. And she's taken a quick walking tour so she knows where everything is
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Now that Shephard's back at the base, he's heading into the hangar to check on the black beast. Long, long before he was born they wrote the Rifleman's Creed and made it a basic part of Corps doctrine; it took Shephard all of thirty seconds to edit the creed to fit his situation:
My chopper and myself know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit... My chopper is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weakness, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrels. I will keep my chopper clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other...
There's more, but it boils down to the same thing: come and look after your equipment, and learn what you can about looking after it from those who know how to do it better than you. So, Eleanor's likely to have company real shortly.
"I'll fix that part myself," Shephard says. "Would've done it sooner, if I'd got the chance." He pauses. "Shit. Probably did 'n I just didn't think t'do it. Gettin' lax in my old age..."
"Born 1979, put on ice in 2001, thawed out coupla weeks ago," says Shephard. "So it's been forty-two years since I was born but I only lived 'bout twenty-two of 'em."
"Some pisslicking sheepfuckin' dog bastard shit of a walkin' fuckin' cadaver in a goddamn grey suit rigged half the crap that happened at Black Mesa, and the son of a turdburner reckoned I'd seen too much'n might go tellin' someone what really happened down in that ballsuckin' pit... I ever see that ass-eyed G-man again he's gonna get his ass kicked so hard his stomach's gonna ask when the fuck he swallowed a boot."
Shephard does not have quite so many issues stemming from the Incident as Gordon. But the one he does have is the end-of-year twice-normal-size special with the special glossy color inserts and the index for the preceding twelve months stuffed into the back.
Eleanor manages a small, tight smile. (Gordon did mention the man in the suit to her, albeit without quite so much strong language. She's not about to mention that, though. If her uncle wants his secrets told, he can tell them himself.)
"Yeah, okay," Shephard mutters, and makes a mental note to cut back a little around Eleanor. You don't want your mechanic taking a disliking to you, no you do not. "Want me to git started on the paint first, or there somethin' else needs a second set of hands? I know motorcycle engines, mostly."
"Just watch what I do, please," Eleanor says crisply as she walks to the tail of the chopper and starts unscrewing the bolts that hold the rotor in place.
Shephard nods and follows along as best he can. He'll be asking questions as they go, of course, but he's going to be quiet at least at first. You learn more by paying attention than by asking what you should've been paying attention to to begin with, in his experience.
A little over an hour later, Eleanor tightens the last bolt on the fuselage and wipes the sweat from her brow. "Okay, we're done here. Any more questions?"
My chopper and myself know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit... My chopper is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weakness, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrels. I will keep my chopper clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other...
There's more, but it boils down to the same thing: come and look after your equipment, and learn what you can about looking after it from those who know how to do it better than you. So, Eleanor's likely to have company real shortly.
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"May I ask why?"
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"Some pisslicking sheepfuckin' dog bastard shit of a walkin' fuckin' cadaver in a goddamn grey suit rigged half the crap that happened at Black Mesa, and the son of a turdburner reckoned I'd seen too much'n might go tellin' someone what really happened down in that ballsuckin' pit... I ever see that ass-eyed G-man again he's gonna get his ass kicked so hard his stomach's gonna ask when the fuck he swallowed a boot."
Shephard does not have quite so many issues stemming from the Incident as Gordon. But the one he does have is the end-of-year twice-normal-size special with the special glossy color inserts and the index for the preceding twelve months stuffed into the back.
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Yeah, that's all you're getting out of her.
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Once in a while he remembers to back up and look at his sentences from the point of view of someone who isn't him. Not often, but.
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"Let's just get to work, shall we?"
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A little over an hour later, Eleanor tightens the last bolt on the fuselage and wipes the sweat from her brow. "Okay, we're done here. Any more questions?"
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He knows better than to ask for masking tape around here.
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