Right now, Stukov decided, there was far too much going on for having just effectively hopped off an operating table and rode over here. Sis was bombarding him with info, then Boss waltzes in and the medical Sororitas was going a mile a minute. Coupled with Smiles teleporting, and the sharp increase in grating noise in his head that it generated, a low level of painful feedback kicked in, and he suppressed a pained expression while trying to keep up with everything that had gone on. Some sort of high form party, far above his paygrade (very much like most of this pleasure world had proven to be), and probably requiring some uncomfortable variety of formal wear. Great, and here he thought he could avoid doing that? Before anything else, he turned to Boss and reported, the mechanical tones in his voice breaking up the neutral tone he had before, giving him an odd sort of accent now. [b][color=9e0b0f]"Morning Boss, medicae center got the damage repaired, or replaced what they couldn't fix. Vocal cords included. If I might request, don't put me in any sort of formal wear. The augmatic leg tends to stand out rather sorely. Some fancy place like that would expect fancy replacement parts. Not my brand of repair work, I'm afraid."[/color][/b]

Stukov had replaced his breastplate and, as some form of good will gesture from the Sisters, he had a more complete set of Carapace now, including greaves and bracers as well as a more well built breastplate. No helmet still, rebreather hanging around his neck whenever it wasn't in place, and the Galvanic Rifle looped over his shoulder in a carry position. The coat concealed his Naval pistol, which somehow was not only still on him but undamaged, which the Armsman was relieved about. Overtly, very little stood out about his treatments as most of it was internal. His leg needed rewired, apparently something had surged and damaged the connection between replacement limb and flesh. It was still the rather crude twin pieces of metal and a boot like ending, but the Armsman refused anything fancy or elegant. He had put kicks through far tougher material than one would normally consider with that foot, and he wasn't going to pass it up for some fancy thing that fell apart under the slightest level of stress. All the work done was functional over aesthetically pleasing, so it might certainly dehumanize him in the eyes of some, but if it meant still doing his job, perhaps even better than before, all the better for him then, right?

Smiles teleporting created a rather interesting effect in his mind, the residual energy from the move setting off what felt like an ice shard jammed into his brain, numb and painful at the same time. So he only caught bits and pieces of what the medical sister said about food and cooking, barely suppressing the urge to allow a pained expression to bleed through onto his face. Instead he made a beeline for the stairs, making an offhand comment as he walked away, sounding more distant as an subconscious driven aura of cold seemed to form around the Armsman. [b][color=9e0b0f]"Not hungry. Appreciate the gesture though. Sound an alarm if you need me, Boss."[/color][/b] Stukov quickly found a room as far away from the rest of the retinue as possible, as far as he was able to tell at any rate from the state of occupancy found by the others. Place was too fancy, too nice, for his tastes. Seems he had found a servants quarters of some sort or another. Far more spartan, utilitarian, and didn't have all the needless fancy garbage. Unslinging his rifle and setting it against the wall before throwing his coat onto a wall hook, he all but collapsed into a chair in front of a bare desk, burying his head into his hands. He was scowling, a low hiss emitting from his throat as he held his head, pushing away the pain and noise through brute force. It was not efficient or effective, really, so it was hard to consider it being any sort of long term solution.

The man was unsure if he had been truthful about not being hungry or not, Stukov knew he hadn't eaten since well before the foundry, but he didn't feel any sense of hunger. Shock, maybe? Not good if it was, he thought grimly, shock would make him far less useful or effective in a combat scenario. Looking up from the desk, and his hands, at the mirror, a thin layer of hoarfrost had formed, and the room felt frigid, well below freezing. No one outside the room, even if they leaned on the door, would notice the temperature shift, but it wasn't the temperature that caught him off guard. It was the feint sapphire glow in his eyes, the ones looking back at him from the mirror, and with a growl his fist slammed into the mirror, thoroughly shattering it and cutting his hand up something fierce. Breathing hard, he withdrew his hand from the now destroyed mirror, the temperature warming up some but still well below the norm for the given area. He needed sleep, food probably, but he was going nowhere right now. Binding his hand, he stood up and crashed on the bed, grunting from the impact. He couldn't sleep, but he stared at the ceiling anyways, avoiding the questions that part of him wanted to ask. Something residual from such a heavily warp infested place was haunting him, he would have to seek out a priest's aid before subjecting himself to that again. That was what he told himself, at any rate, the image of his face, sapphire energy burning in them, refusing to remove itself from his mind, lurking at the back at best.