"Not particularly, no. I'm going to suit up..." Squirrel replied. He had grown quiet, with the unfocused look of someone who had recently overindulged opium. This was not the case of course. He had actually over indulged with barbiturates, which had just begun to react with the alcohol in his system. His ability to function in this state was always impressive however, his hand rock steady. The matter of his judgement was occasionally suspect. He swayed ever so slightly as he searched his pockets for a match. Keeping a buzz going was something of an art, and required terrific willpower and attention. Squirrel walked a tightrope, chemically slowing his unfathomable hyperactivity while at the same time keeping his feet beneath him.<br/><br/>"I'm... going to suit up." He repeated, as if he assumed they had not heard him the first time, or more likely as if he had forgotten that he had already announced it a few seconds prior. Inhaling deeply from his brass pipe, the messenger put himself to the task of unbuttoning his shirt as the rest of the crew turned their attention to the new arrival. Unlatching his work case with his boot, the lid popped open with a loud "clunk". He hung his shirt across the lid with the reverence a hand tailored garment deserved, before unbuckling his belt. Modestly turning away from the front door, he bared his ass to the crew as he let his leather pants hit the floor.<br/><br/>The gunner squatted down to examine the contents of his case, digging through the jumble of devices until at last he found his bodysuit. Standing up slowly for fear the room might spin, he shook out the chocolate hued suit, loose bullets and hairpins falling out of the sturdy looking garment. He turned around, the hand tooled rhino hide garment draped over his arm. By sheer chance it offered him some modesty, hiding his genitalia from prying eyes as he squinted at his crew mates, "I'm... I'm going to suit up." He cast away modesty, stepping into the wrong leg of his suit. After a few seconds of intent study, he discovered his mistake, and adjusted himself into the suit properly, tugging it up to his waist, the torso of the suit hanging in front of him like a loincloth.<br/><br/>With a lurching step back to his case, he began arming himself with the certainty of hand that made it clear, he had done this many times before in substantially worse states of mind. This was not a particularly comforting thought, as he fastened on a Crichton Steam Co. air gauntlet that had been taken off the market after months of bad press involving catastrophic misfires and birth defects in local livestock.<br/><br/>Bassiato rolled the cylinder of a pneumatic cannon across his forearm, the steady clickity-click of the gears against the hammer like a lullaby. He had picked up a penchant for naming his weaponry thanks largely to Vira. Naming wasn't a practice he had cared for, but given that the names she gave his tools were decidedly unmasculine, he had taken to branding his weaponry with his own titles out of self defense.<br/><br/>The little beauty he was in the process of whirling about his forefinger was a weapon designed for crowd control. With an air tank rated to a maximum of 5,000 PSI and an extended barrel for increased accuracy it fired a number of rounds that were categorized by the engineers of Cerulean Skies, Limited Liability as being "Less Lethal". It was designed to cause the greatest amount pain for the least amount of injury. He called it "Child Support", as it was most frequently brought into play when an impregnated mistress had managed to track him down. Today it was brought to bear for a much nobler cause than avoiding paying for his offspring, however.<br/><br/>Shooting Henry if he touched his stash...<br/><br/>He felt a belch welling up and he rested his chin on his chest, the nausea making him question if it might end explosively. Faced with the prospect of "shouting groceries" over his recently oiled suit, he swallowed it back with great effort, rubbing his chest as he breathed through his nose. With the crisis apparently averted, he gave a shaky wave to the new arrival, noticing her for the first time, "... twins?" He checked his hand to confirm that he was actually seeing double.<br/><br/>"Oi! I'm..." He paused, taking advantage of his disturbed vision to stare at Clarice's cleavage again. The only thing better than a pair was a foursome, his mother used to say... right before the unfortunate business with her bed falling through to the first floor under the weight of her suitors, "I'm going to suit up."<br/><br/>His tiny clockwork man was hard at work, folding Squirrel's discarded trousers. Tented beneath the leather garment, the tiny servant was struggling with the task. Tick-tocking along as he managed to at last find the crease, he heaved mightily, folding the pants with a triumphant shout. He looked up at his Operator, being well attuned to the body language of Bassiato Wittner. Pipe clutched in a death grip, his right hand was moving back and forth as if he were trying to say something important, while his left hand had settled over his mouth, as if he were afraid more than words might come past his lips.<br/><br/>Nielson Thirty-Two's mouth plate slid open as he helpfully chimed, "My Honorable Operator is currently in the process of "suiting up", and will be nominal in five to seven and a half minutes. We appreciate your patience, and I would personally request with all humbleness that someone prepare a cup of tea. I would make it, but I can not readily reach the table. It will facilitate him immensely, and make for a more pleasant afternoon. Thank you for indulging this humble clockwork." Squirrel seemed relieved, and gave the little clockwork fellow a thumbs up, before focusing on the dual tasks of keeping his lunch down and getting dressed. Nielson dragged the trousers inch by painful inch towards the case, hopeful that his Operator would win his battle against his tummy... or at least not lose it all over the clockwork, like the last time.