Drakmor sat in the room he had claimed as his own.
The captain had said that Drakmor could use the scrap room as much as he wanted. So, why not live in it? Not to mention, the junk parts were anything but junk. From his days as a mechanic, Drakmor always loved to fix and create things. It had only taken a short time under that greasy man for Drakmor to understand most of how vehicles were made.
Now Drakmor had built a working motorcycle and some makeshift steam weapons. Maybe he would present the bike to the captain?
Drakmor cringed as he moved his head to look around. The room he was in had shelves upon shelves of spare and junked parts. They had been hastily put up. Well, since the last battle had thrown the parts everywhere, Drakmor guessed they didn't feel like organizing. He didn't blame them.
Drakmor sighed. He guessed it was time to assess the damage. Pulling out one of his many knives, he cut into his right arm. No blood came when the knife trailed down his arm, as he knew it wouldn't. He pulled off the fake skin covering the mechanical arm. As usual, he had waited til he was alone. Drakmor didn't want anyone thinking he was a robot or something...
A few places on his arm had been burnt and damaged, but it was nothing serious. The healing would take a while, but the nanobots should be done in a few days. Drakmor relaxed and sat back, trying to ignore the pain. It had been a long day.
A knock on the scrap room door made Drakmor jump. He quickly covered his arm in his jacket and walked to the door. Who could want him at this hour? Usually people just knocked when they wanted Drakmor and not when they needed a part. Of course, there were those who worked in the engine rooms that would come by and observe Drakmor's work, but that was rare lately.
Opening the door, he realized it was Dina.
"Hello, Dina," he said lazily, "What can I do for you?"