The time for childish things had been over long, long ago, and once one left them behind, returning to them was an impossibility.
The technicians, for their part, stood almost warily at the ready, watching the tall man prepare himself as he had so many times. He could hear the murmurs, pitched low enough that perhaps a IV couldn't have heard them but then again, the IIs weren't particularly open about the fact that they could hear from one end of a ship to another.
No more mourning.
No more days spent remembering, questioning what might have been.
Clad only in the reactive bodysuit that he wore as the base of his armor, John mounted the steps of the platform without the hesitation of his last several attempts, gaining himself the much appreciated silence of the technicians, who sprang to life and to their stations. A faint, but frenzied energy almost radiated from the men and women as they set to work, and they only paused when he did, hesitating the moment before he stepped into the armature itself.
No more nights spent sitting awake, staring at the ceiling unable to cry, or breathe, or feel anything but empty.
No more guilt.
Two steps in and the process began, excited technicians saving their gasps and chatter to instead focus on their work. Segmented armor plates locked into place over his feet and ankles, and he raised his arms more out of habit than knowing this new procedure. No more technicians hefting pieces of armor to clumsily mount them in place, but sleek machinery, automated for one job and perfectly calibrated to accommodate for his height, his weight. Nothing like the first time they'd stripped him of his armor, when he'd more than welcomed it's removal and hoped he'd never see it again. He remembered at the last second about the grips, opening his hands with lightning fast reflexes to take hold of them just in time, wrists perfectly positioned for the pieces of armor that slipped into place with ease.
"Here's hoping this will actually-"
He tensed ever so slightly, as the armature rotated, the last pieces of his greaves locking into place as his body was lifted into a horizontal position above the ground, watching the chest-piece being lowered towards him even as the back-plate lifted towards him from behind. For a moment, he was struck with a memory, the first time he'd ever donned the armor, watching magnetic locks slip into position out of the corner of his eye with no small amount of nervous anticipation. How things had changed.
No more regret.
No more living in the past.
No more nights haunted by one, terrible, final good-bye.
John-117 closed his eyes as the last of the pieces of his MJOLNIR MK-VI locked into place, heavy armor that, in tandem with his size, had given the technicians at least three month's worth of trouble adapting an armature for him. The armature rotated him upright once more, locking down his upper arms, the last of his armor even as it lowered him down, lowering his helmet to lock into place with a pressurized hiss of air as his HUD sprang to life. Sensory feedback immediately kicked in through his suit, feeding him a thousand different sensations at once that threatened at first to overwhelm him the same way it always did before he relaxed into it's sweet embrace. Artificial and overwhelming though they may have been, they were preferable to the harsh, glaring, garish world outside where the only beautiful thing left to him were icey-blue eyes in a handsome face framed by crimson hair - Nothing else.
"... Christ..."
The word, uttered like a prayer, for the man that had once been as iconic as the messiah they named, slipped unbidden from the lips of one of the technicians as John-117 took a slow step forward. Thought translated to action immediately, no effort required in that movement.
No more fear.
No more feeling.
Only the calm quiet, the analytical confidence that had served him so well for so long.
Like a man returning to the arms of a long-spurned lover, John-117 couldn't deny that it felt right to wear his armor again.
