of scientists and engineers that programmed this machine of war a round of beers.
Moving slowly as his joints and limbs ache from the beating he just took, he pushes a button on the wrist controller.
The front plate closes and she quickly returns to her position on the rear of the Beast as Steve climbs into the driver’s seat. His ribs were sore but he could already feel them heal, the ooze that quickly filled cuts and wounds working its way into the cracks and breaks in his bones, but restricting his movement as it grew thicker.
This infection wouldn’t take long to repair the damage, a day or two at most. Whoever designed it, programmed it like Belle, he felt like he owed them a few rounds too. But rounds from his rifle. To the face.