Over the past few days, Ironwood had tasked his research and development team with designing and creating a prosthetic for (F/N). Contained among the documents that survived the war were the schematics for his previous prosthetic. During the time of the Great War (F/N) was equipped with a copper arm of crude design. The fingers were more claw-like than anything else, and several large spikes protruded from it at the shoulder and elbow. The knuckles were jagged, probably to give an extra edge to his strikes, and the worn piece of metal was dented in places where bullets and shrapnel had made contact. The General had given these documents to the scientists downstairs. Many of the brains lamented over its primitive design, comparing it to nothing more than a metal club. The head researcher, Dr. Catherine Eye, assured Ironwood that (F/N)'s new prosthetic would be the best that Atlas technology had to offer.

(F/N) in the meantime had been given a private room by the General. He isolated himself inside, hiding himself away from the rest of the airship. He didn't sleep, and he barely ate. Every time Ironwood or Winter checked in on him they found him sitting in a chair mere inches away from the boring white walls, just staring. When questioned about his behavior, (F/N) simply responded that sleeping gave him nightmares.

Winter Schnee was walking through the halls of the airship, passing by (F/N)'s room to make sure he was okay. Sure enough, he was seated facing the wall. About to walk off, Winter stopped when she heard her name being called from within the room.

"Lieutenant Schnee?" (F/N) calls.

Winter sighs and steps into the room. "What is it (L/N)?" She asks rather sharply. The past few days have done little to change her opinion of the young man.

"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"I despise talking about myself." She answers.

"Oh. I see."

"Is that all?" She asks, turning to leave.

"Yes." (F/N) replies without taking his eyes off the wall. "It's just, do you ever regret joining the military?"

Winter sighs. It appears they're going to talk about her anyways. "Of course not." She answers.

"No, I didn't think so." (F/N) says, finally turning in his seat to face her. "I don't know why I asked really. Maybe I'm just... I don't know. Do you really never get tired of it?"

Winter sighs and rests her back against the wall, crossing her arms and ankles. "Not everyone is cut out for this lifestyle." She says.

"Yeah, you don't need to tell me." (F/N) laughs. Looking up, he sees Winter glaring at him. "Oh." He says flatly. "You were talking about me."

Winter neither confirms nor denies his accusation, not that she needs to.

"You don't like me." (F/N) laughs shortly. "That's okay. I don't much like me either. But why? What makes you better than me?"

"Simply put, I find you as an insult to my profession." Winter replies. "You call yourself a soldier, but you have no regard for protocol or rank or the professionalism the job requires."

"Is that why you joined the military?" (F/N) asks. "For the order of it all? You don't need to answer, I can see it in your eyes. You're a perfectionist. You pride yourself on being the best, demand it of yourself. You enlisted to show people what it meant to be a soldier. But me? I enlisted so they'd never have to learn."

"And because of that you think you belong here?"

"No." (F/N) replies. "That's just it. I don't belong here. I mean, look at me."

"If you admit you don't belong here," Winter says slowly, "then why are you?"

"Because if it wasn't me, it'd have just been someone else. It's like I said, I joined so that other people wouldn't have to. So that my teenage brother wouldn't have to. So that my best friend's little sister wouldn't have to. They were far too young to be soldiers."

"And you aren't?" Winter asks with a scoff.

"What?" (F/N) asks, scowling. "You think it's funny? Or maybe you think it untrue. Well it doesn't matter what you think. I call myself a soldier because that's what I am."

"Don't insult me." Winter scoffs, pushing herself off the wall. "A real soldier respects authority."

"A real soldier?" (F/N) asks, rising to his feet. "What do you think I am? What do you think you are? You're not a soldier. Protocol and rank don't make a soldier. Oh, you can preach all you want about how a real soldier respects authority. That's bullshit. The only thing a soldier respects is war. The only thing that makes a soldier, is war. That's the difference between you and me. You don't know what it's like to fight in a war. I don't know what it's like to live in peace. And because I don't lick the boots of my superiors you have the audacity to say I'm not a soldier." Winter takes a couple steps back as (F/N) gets more heated. "And you know what the worst part is? I never wanted to be! I just wanted to go to school, go out on dates, surprise my little sibling on their birthday. Stuff that you get to do. Stuff normal kids get to do."

"I'm not a kid!" Winter says loudly.

(F/N) takes a deep breath before proceeding much calmer. "No. You're not. But at least you got to make that decision."

"Am I interrupting something?"

(F/N) and Winter turn to see Ironwood standing outside the doorway. Winter snaps to attention, saluting the General, while (F/N) sits back down.

"No, sir." Winter answers. "(F/N) and I were just... having a talk."

"I see." Ironwood says. "Well, I was hoping I could take up a bit of your time Mr. (L/N)."

"What do you need?" (F/N) asks.

Ironwood steps inside the room followed by a woman dressed in a lab coat, a large black case stamped with the Atlas seal hanging from her left arm. "Mr. (L/N), this is Dr. Catherine Eye."

The doctor nods at (F/N).

"Dr. Cat is one of Atlas' leading scientists in the field of auto-prosthetics. She and her team have been working round the clock to get this ready for you. Dr. Cat."

The doctor lifts the case and sets it on a table sitting against the wall. General Ironwood nods at her and she unfastens several latches, opening the black box. Inside sits a silver arm, several cylindrical units coming out of the forearm. Connected to these units are tubes which run the length of the arm, up to the shoulder and down to the wrist. Along the jointed area of the shoulder are a series of spikes in the form of a circle, one large spike protruding further from the rest lies in the center.

"This here is the latest and greatest of Atlas auto-prosthetic technology." Dr. Cat says proudly. "It's comprised of a titanium-carbon alloy interwoven with flexible steel mesh. Completely bullet proof and rust proof, it's powered by solar energy which it can absorb on all sides and surfaces." Lifting the arm from the container, she sets it on table to the side of its container. "It stores the solar energy in a lightweight aluminum nitrate battery just in the bicep." She then indicates the four small cylindrical units along the forearm. "These storage units house refined dust. One for each of the pure forms, Fire, Ice, Electricity, and Gravity. These transport units here," she indicates the tubes running along the arm, "carry the dust along the arm, allowing for a versatile range of effects." She pulls several vials from her lab coat pocket, each housing a different form of dust. Placing them inside the cylindrical units, the arm hisses as the units sink into the forearm. "Upon filling each unit with dust, the storage units will house inside the forearm until ready to be refilled." Turning the arm over she indicates the spikes along the joint. "These here will connect your nerve endings to the arm, allowing for complete cerebral control over the arm. Would you like to try it?"

(F/N) looks to the General who nods. Pulling up the sleeve to his right arm, he exposes the stump at his shoulder. Dr. Cat gently takes the arm and places it next to his shoulder.

"I'm not going to lie, this might hurt." She says empathetically.

(F/N) sits with a stone face, simply waiting for the arm to attach. The doctor places her arm at (F/N)'s stump. The spikes extend and pierce his flesh, but (F/N) seems unphased. The arm slowly gets pulled towards his shoulder as the arm integrates with his nervous system. Fastening itself with a tight twist and hiss, the only sign of (F/N)'s discomfort is his clenched jaw. Dr. Cat steps back, eyeing the arm with anticipation. Looking at the General, Lieutenant, and doctor's faces, (F/N) attempts to move the arm. Slowly, it raises in front of his face. (F/N) looks at the arm in a state of wonder as he turns it, inspecting it from all angles.

"Oh, bravo!" Dr. Cat squeals. "Excellent, most excellent indeed! It seems the M04/TR is a success."

"The what?" (F/N) asks in confusion, still examining his new arm.

"The arm." Dr. Cat clarifies. "Of our auto-prosthetics, this is model M04/TR, the only one in existence. Though the brains downstairs have just taken to calling it The Mortar."

"The dust components," (F/N) asks. "what are they for?"

"The Mortar is a weapon just as much as it is an arm." Dr. Car explains. "The dust is meant to enhance its combative capabilities. Whether that be through close quarters or long-range combat."

"Long-range?"

"Yes." Dr. Cat continues. "The Mortar has two configurations. Right now, its in its primary configuration, meant for day to day use and close-range fighting."

"And how do I get it to switch?"

"To change it to its secondary configuration all you have to do is ask."

"Ask?"

"Like I said, the neural interface linked it to your mental commands, just like a normal arm. I understand it's a bit different from holding a pen, but the concept is the same."

(F/N) gives the doctor's words some thought before willing his arm to change into, whatever it is it would change into. No sooner had the thought entered his mind that the prosthetic changed. The hand bent down at the wrist and the forearm split in two. The top dissociated from the bottom, revealing a concealed mid to long-range rifle with alternating suppressor fire.

"All you have to do is try to make a fist and it will fire." Dr. Cat tells him. "The ammunition can also be chosen through mental commands. Whether it be fire, ice, electricity, gravity, armor piercing, or standard. Ammunition is stored here," she points at the shoulder of the prosthetic, "and is reloaded here." She points to an extended string of bullets which starts from the wrist and feeds into the upper arm."

The doctor showed (F/N) how to reload the ammunition and dust compartments, instructing him to be very careful not to allow any foreign entities to enter the inner part of the arm. She explains that the dust compartments can be refilled with standard dust purchased from any store, but the ammunition was specially made, and he would have to send in an order to the military if he ran out. Transforming back into its primary configuration, (F/N) flexes and bends the fingers, testing the Mortar's dexterity.

"You can also infuse the primary configuration with dust properties as well." Dr. Eye explains. "Same principle as before, mental commands and all. You'll have to experiment for yourself to really get a feeling for it's capabilities, but it should be to your liking."

"I see." (F/N) says, taking his eyes of the arm and looking at the woman in front of him. "Thank you doctor."

"No need to thank me." She says, adjusting her glasses. "It was a welcome challenge and a pleasure designing it."

"Thank you, Dr. Eye. That will be all." Ironwood says, dismissing her. "So," he asks, turning to (F/N), "what do you think?"

"I think it seems a little excessive, don't you think?"

"Maybe, but the mission may require you to be combat ready. Besides, I'm sure you'll find life a little easier with an extra hand."

"Still, this must have cost a fortune. I would have managed just fine with my old arm."

"Well, you deserve it." Ironwood tells him. "The people of this Kingdom owe you a great debt."

(F/N) slowly gets to his feet and stands at attention, saluting with his new arm. Ironwood looks surprised for only a second, before smiling and saluting him back.

"We'll let you get used to your new arm." Ironwood says. "Schnee."

The General exits the room followed closely by his right hand.