— IRONCLAD.

It's just... something he's never had to think about, really, never having much to do outside of sorties, repairs and surviving along the way, let alone something that someone around him could ever point out, walls after walls maybe even sturdier than the heaviest AC around. Honestly, the way Roark's managed to chip away at so much armor and so many layers to find him underneath, seeing all the scars and ugliness and still deciding that was good enough to stay... it's something Volkner still can't quite figure how it happened, whenever he does think about it. ( maybe it's not such a bad thing, after all. maybe it's just what he needed all this time, someone pulling him out from under the water. )

"Guess it's just what the coral does... not like I had much to do after racing, usually." Always easier to just go back to the hangars in his lonesome and scroll through the list of available sorties to keep his quiet little life going, one day after the other, dull surprise at finding himself still intact when coming back. Well, no use dwelling on that right now. ( he will be leaving that for later, when the high of bristling coral has passed and he's staring at the ceiling once again. )

Now, however, he has other decisions to make, decisions he's not thought about before. Honestly, his initial intentions were truly to just toss Roark a bone if he wanted something to do that didn't involve burying his head in the dirt, this is much further than he thought it would go, and Volkner himself isn't really the guy to go to for food decisions as it is—

Not that Roark could say he was any better with the way he disappeared after outfitting his AC with excavation parts, flying off some hour away into the wildnerness to work on finding something exciting on this planet. Sure, neighboring pilots were on good terms with him, sharing some small talk, but rarely did he ever go out to socialize with any of them himself. And on those occasions he did, whatever came out of anyone he brought home was always short-lived, one way or another. Nothing really stuck—AC pilots didn't necessarily live long enough to be worth investing in outside of a fling. Those stubborn enough would eventually learn that it didn't matter if they were augmented or not—they would almost never be prioritized unless they could be convinced to retire early. Roark, in his late twenties, was not so easy to sway. Socializing with others was really only there if he was craving a human connection long enough to do anything about it.

He wouldn't have been surprised if Volkner had an obligation after the coral surge, but—no, he had plenty of time to walk out of his life after that recovery time and he still opted to put up with him, even in his own home. It was easy to convince himself that Volkner might just be content, and finally just accepted Roark was just the way he was. That wasn't too bad, was it?

( that might or might not say some things about him, but well. too late for volkner to care. )

Regardless, Volkner complies with a huff, jacket shrugged off and shirt quickly following into a pile on the couch. What's left exposed is pale skin on a thin frame, ribs visible, the occasional scars and old bruises not even able to hold a candle to his back, scratched metal tracing his spine and framed by deeper, darker scars, taking up nearly half of his back, almost a wonder in itself how Volkner can simply... move around, and do all he does without being seemingly bothered by, let alone have it be more noticeable than this. The wonders of old gen augmentation, huh? And to think it can still work out as well as it does...

Volkner himself doesn't seem all that bothered by everything he's now exposed either, not even taking a moment to glance at Roark and the myriad of cables that seemingly keep increasing in number as he finds more things that need to be plugged in and monitored, just reaching for the tablet and starting to type as if this is just another day on the job picking sorties, compiling info and sending out sparse reports of success. And maybe it's for the best to be so casual about this, to treat this like any other day. At least he's not ignoring Roark entirely right now, a huff somewhat resembling a chuckle and a lopsided, forced grin once the next question comes up. "Hell if I know— I haven't done this in years as it is and I didn't really get to ask more questions the first time, anyways." It would hardly surprise him if after so long, the process ended up taking longer than the average, even if nothing goes wrong. ( man, he's really gotta work on the whole self care thing... or at least start caring about it in the first place. )

Finally, Volkner hands the tablet back, carefully putting down in what little space was left available between the laptop and all the cables turning it into an improvised operating monitor, elbow propped on his knee and chin on the palm of his hand, quietly watching and listening as Roark seems to be making more sense of the program and all the variables to consider than he maybe expected him to at a glance. He didn't doubt Roark's mind, not after being stuck with him for as long as he has been, but... it's not as if old gen tech is that widely available nowadays. At least where most people are more likely to look— and that's before even considering the knowledge on augmentation an unaugmented pilot who had no interest in the procedure would really have.

... Hopefully Roark does have a decent enough idea of what he's doing to not cause some sort of coral surge in his living room.

Still, that doesn't do much to cover up the twist in his expression when he sees the state of the other pilot, practically skin and bones with the augmentation the only thing that could he described as sturdy. The coral was probably handling much more than just his muscles and mental aptitude... Even the pale skin he touches on his shoulder feels colder than it should be, using it as leverage to push in the connectors into the ports that tap right into his spine. "Dude, you've got a cute face and all, but I'm gonna have to make meals for you. No wonder you're so tired all the time," he chastises, not particularly hearing the words he's saying to Volkner so much as he is vocalizing the concern he's been so suddenly plagued with. Even the coral burns under his skin wouldn't stand out so much if he had a little meat back on his bones. "I bet you're anemic with all that nothing." For emphasis, he proves he can fit each finger between his ribs, enough of an outline to pinpoint exactly where they are. "I think your augmentation is veering off because it's stuck trying to optimize your basic body functions, too..." Unfortunately, the visual example puts some truth behind those who boast about the newer generation augmentations. Maybe feeling less like an object keeps people's spirits up. The perception of being labeled barely human had lived up to it's standards... Roark's brows remain furrowed as he inserts the rest of the cables in, looking over his shoulder to verify each individual input registering on the diagnostics panel. Afterwards, he works on the sticky pads, examining the probes with interest. They certainly don't look comfortable to have on... but if the human part of a pilot isn't responsible for these kinds of signals, maybe the assumption here is that a pilot wouldn't feel it to begin with. He's not entirely convinced, but at least the contacts don't break skin. Touching the pointed tip, however, still doesn't feel very pleasant. Each one is applied to a muscle group on Volkner's arms, chest, neck, and shoulders. They remind him of a TENS unit—this is likely to check results of calibration...

Well, at least Volkner is there to break his drifting thoughts, smiling half-heartedly and shaking his head in return. "Don't sweat it. I'll help you out with anything, you just need to ask." Nothing could get more stress-inducing than this, right?

Once the tablet is handed back to him, Roark quietly reads through the notes, lining up with the program routines on the application in front of him. Everything has a nominal range, and so far, these calibrations are automated. There's a few notes underlined, mostly precautions, but otherwise, given the length of time it had been for Volkner, he needed the entire routine and then some. The discharge was the only real concern here, unsure of where, or if, Volkner would feel it— and more importantly, if this laptop had a limit on how much excess throughput it could handle. "Well. If you're ready, we'll get started then."