"Hey. it wasn't my fault. Somebody hacked my mech and dicked around with my playlist! I'm s'posed to fight to easy listenin'? Do I look like a soft ballad kinda guy ta you?"<br/><br/>In truth, Maximilian Engel barely looked human. His "tactics" on the battlefield over the years had resulted in numerous and extensive reconstructive and cosmetic surgeries, leading many to question just what he originally looked like. Most certainly nothing like this.<br/><br/>"I was tryin' ta fix the screw-up and got distracted."<br/><br/>Max leaned back and rested his head on a cushion of his interlaced fingers. It would have been near impossible to guess his profession by looking at him. If anything, the man looked like he should be gracing the cover of some obscure music rag, streaming obscenities while proclaiming his superiority. From his modified combat boots, sheets of metal bolted over the toes and heels, to the tall red spikes adorning his skull like the crest of some deranged rooster, Max could hardly be compared to the strictly disciplined crack troops that filled the ranks of normal military units.<br/><br/>But then, this was no<em>normal</em>military unit.<br/><br/>"Still, ya saved my ass, Leona. I owe ya one. Buy ya a drink later?"