The hangars are a large system of high ceiling corregated iron lined rooms, each large enough to house several single engined fighters, with plenty of space for engineers to move around and take apart said aeroplanes at will. Each of the hangars have a large series of metallic shelving and workbenches to house the various small parts and tools needed to maintain and repair the Foxes large fleet of aircraft. As for the larger aircraft parts, such as engines and weaponry, they are stored in the attics above the hangars.

The buildings themselves are located deep within the network of tunnels that link up most regions of Gaia. The actually geographical location of the tunnels is a closely guarded secret among the Foxes, and will continue to be so.

The hangars are the usual stomping ground for Samuel Garwood, the Head of Flight in the Winged Foxes. He can be normally be found tweeking his beloved Spitfire, or hanging with other pilots having a sneaking drink or two.

Samuel was bent over a large metallic, grime covered workbench. Surrounded by various aircraft parts, the tall white-haired man was slaving away taking apart an aircraft machine gun from his beloved Supermarine Spitfire, which stood a few dozen feet behind him. His hands and face were smeared with a mixture of engine oil and machine lubricant, as were parts of his coat where he had wiped himself in a vain attempt to keep himself clean.

In front of Samuel lay a fairly intact aircraft cannon which he had salvaged from the Spitfire behind him. With most of the firing mechanisms removed from the weapon, the silver-haired man slid off the barrel from the weapon and looked down its smooth barrel. He'd never liked smooth bore weapons, and was a profound enthusiast of rifled fire arms, a strong believer in accuracy over rate of fire. The young man sighed, slowly realising the enormity of the task before him. Rifling out a small fire arm was one thing, but rifling the barrel of a large cannon would be another thing. Especially with the lack of modern equipment. It was the one thing he didn't like about working the Foxes' hangars, no modern machines. Too used to working with automated robots in the factories of Serenity Industries, he thought it would be a nice break to use more simplified techniques, away from the hustle and bustle of modern factory life. But he had soon remember this was but a fantasy, as Samuel knew more than anyone that he preferred modern living, over the simplified times from the forgotten era in which the Foxes seemed to be stuck in.

"How many feet of tunnels are there in god-forsaken tunnels...?" Demetrius asked aloud - mostly to himself - his voice echoing off the cavern walls. Many areas had been at least mined, or widened, at some point, the scars from pick-axes from the days of old still visible. The sound of metal upon metal soon met the Dessarian along with the light from the Hangers, and the various aircraft stored there.

Squinting, as if doing so would increase his ability to see great distances, Demetrius soon smiled, and raised his voice. "I been looking around your tunnels! I got lost, once, but I'm used to tunnels." Right foot stepping into the hanger's entrance, the Dessarian eyed the Spitfire in front of him, before giving an impressed whistle, and reaching out to stroke the propeller gently once or twice. "I always liked Supermarine planes... Sound like fire god gurgling nails." He chuckled, before stepping away from the machine, and sliding his hands into his pockets.

"Tell me-" He started, looking for a name - but nothing came to, "-Why you staring down detached barrel of that cannon? Is it blocked?" He asked, stepping closer to the silver-haired man. "Whatever your problem, I sure brute force can be applied." He chuckled, with a trade-mark grin.

Samuel didn't turn round to acknowledge the new character who had just entered the hangar. He didn't mean to be rude, but he was far too busy working on the cannon's barrel to give a well thought response to the man's question. It was either that, or Samuel was drunk. As usual.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a small flask, its cap and ends cover with silver, with the main body of the flask appearing to be made out of carbon fibre. Quickly flicking open the lid, Samuel poured the precious last few drops into his mouth, shaking the flask impatiently in a desperate bid to get more. As he finished off the drink and put the flask away, he begun to respond to the man, feeling it was a little rude to ignore him any further.

"Sure, the Spitfire is one of the best planes here. Plus she's easy to fix and maintain, something we Foxes probably take for granted."

Standing up, he picked up the cannon barrel and walked over to the large rifling boring machine that stood in the corner. Balancing the barrel in the machine, Samuel closed down several clamps to hold it in place. Then walking to the side, he began to turn a small wheel that moved a screwdriver-type blade head into the barrel, instant producing a sharp, metal on metal grinding sound as it working its way slowly through the barrel.

"I'm trying to bore some rifling into the cannons, going to see if I can make it more accurate. Seems a waste to waste so many rounds these days."

Demetrius listened intently to the... Mechanic? Engineer? Or, as intently as he could; his grasp on the Gaian language had been under-par for some time; never before particularly needing any use of the blasted language... "I see..." he mused quietly, watching the man work. "I have Supermarine of my own, just, a Spiteful. They are... Good, planes." He added with a faint smile, accent pulling on his words as if attempting to shape them into that of his home language.

"Back in Dessaria, we had tool for doing that," He said, pointing at the boring machine, "It was, big clamp with cutting head at one end, and geared handle-" he began, his hands moving about as if shaping the machine in the air with his hands and his mind, "-Was bugger to operate, because it was all hand-done." He chuckled before adding with a sigh, "Then, cutting head went blunt, and, use was ill advised..."

"We had tunnels; too. Not many knew; but, were used as - well, underground places. Markets, smugglin'... Was safer under the sand, in caverns." He said, idly, as he moved over to the work bench, eyeing the tools and machine-parts with hands in pockets. "You realise though, that rifling this bore will make bullet drift up after distance, before falling downward?" He asked, once again imitating the bullet's movement with his hand, "And bullets path back through supersonic barrier, makes it unstable - especially when spinning..." He then chuckled, "Still, with four-hundred miles per hour on top of bullet's usual speed, I suppose instability under Mach-one is little problem..."

Walking into the hangars, Seba immediately spotted Samuel working on his Spitfire; and headed over to him. He was talking to Demetrius, and she would rather not interrupt them; but she had things to do and the deadline for departure was rapidly approaching. Getting closer she cleared her throat and nodded at the two. "Evening. We've got work to do, gentlemen."

Demetrius looked over at the woman who had entered, before grinning widely. "Ah, Seba! I think." He smiled, walking over to her and clapping her on both arms. "Work you say?" He asked, grin still having not faded, "I will get my stuff. Then to the Airships I feel! That is word on site, yes? That they are, prepping for launch?"

Grinning, he passed around her, and continued away towards where his stuff had been left. It had been a while since he had been in an Airship - if the rumours were true, of course - and a visit to the fabled Air Pirate's Airship - whose name he only knew in Dessarian as the 'Sapphire Stone' - would be welcomed indeed.

Samuel paused for a few moments, turning his head slightly towards Demetrius with a slight look of disbelief written across his face. He stood back slightly and rotated fully towards the new kid, pointing at the machine as his did so.

"And I suppose it looks something very much like that?" He said with a slight hint of sarcasm.

He quickly turned back to the machine to continue with the boring process. He paused slightly once again, realising he really shouldn't have spoken to him like that. The lack of drink was beginning to get to him.

"I'm.. Sorry. Just been really.. on edge. It's been one of those days.."

Sighing slightly, he pressed on with the rifling process, his right hand in his pocket fumbling with the empty flask. His dry mouth had gotten the better of him. Now it was time to feed the system. Abandoning the machine, Samuel quickly strode across the hangar towards a large stack of metal foot lockers appearing to be full of tools. However the thick white painted writing on the doors suggested otherwise;

Samuel's Stash. All raiders will be shot when they least expect it.

A somewhat light hearted twist of a very serious threat.

Samuel quickly revealed that with a large bang on writing clad doors, the stiff metal hinges slid open to show its hidden treasure, several dozen bottles of spirits of all kinds, all baring various different brands and languages.